Harry Potter & the Goblet of Treachery
by physixXx
Summary: An alternate telling of the Goblet of Fire where Harry doesn't compete in the TWT. But someone's still out to kill him. HarryCedric, HarryColin, HarryCharlie and others. Slash!
1. Chapter 1

**1. **

"... Harry Potter..."

It takes a moment to realize what I've just heard. The muttering and applause of the Great Hall died so quickly, I thought someone cast a silencing charm on the room. I can hear a slight buzzing sound, like a swarm of angry bees, growing louder in volume and intensity. All eyes turn to me and I can't help but wonder if I have something in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose. Instinctively, I rub it as I hear Dumbledore's voice again, this time louder than before.

"Harry Potter."

Even Hermione and Ron are looking at me with blank expressions on their faces. Seamus is whispering to Dean, who blinks my way. I stand up and try to move, but my legs don't obey me. All they can do is tremble, so much so I feel they're going to give way.

"Harry, up here, if you please."

Dumbledore's voice snaps me back to the here-and-now. There's nothing jovial in his tone and when I look at him, his posture is rigid and his face, stern. I don't want to go to him; I want to run back to the Tower and wait it out. Hermione gives me a gentle shove.

"Go on, Harry," she urges in a soft whisper. For the first time, emotion is sketched along every inch of her face: the patented Hermione-Worry ™. When she pushes me a second time, harder than before, I jerk my arm away, giving her an upbraiding look and a breathy 'stop'.

I'd be embarrassed over its lack of strength if I weren't so fucking afraid.

Finally, my feet begin to work properly. I walk slowly towards Dumbledore, who's standing in front of the Goblet of Fire holding the parchment that, apparently, has my name on it – my signed death warrant. I can feel everyone's eyes follow me as I walk, some glowering at me while others whisper their slaggings to the person next to them.

Even though I can't hear them, I know what their saying:

"_Fucking attention-seeker."_

"_Shoulda' known he'd try and get in the tourney."_

"_I bet they'll let him compete, too – Dumbledore's favourite and all."_

By the time I reach the Headmaster, I've already made note that his expression has remained stoic and unflinching. I don't even think he's blinked the entire time since he's called my name.

"Well, yes, then," he says as he hands me the parchment. I look to read it (just to make sure it was my name on there and not, say "Terry Blotter" or summat). "Through the door there, Harry." He points to the same side door that the other champions – Cedric, Viktor, and Fleur – walked through.

Cedric.

Merlin, what ever will he think of me, now?

I pass the professors' table as I make my way to the side chamber. McGonnagol looks terrified, as if she's watching a dead man, walking. I look to Hagrid; I can always count on him for a smile or a wink or a nod, anything that will make me feel a little better about my current situation.

I get nothing. He can barely meet my eyes and, for some reason, that makes me want to cry.

I go through the door, down some steps and finally make my way to the side chamber – a smaller room than I'm used to seeing at Hogwarts. A warm fire is crackling in the fireplace opposite me, setting off an eerie glow reminiscent of a bad dream. I can hear more whispering. This time it's the portraits speaking to each other, occasionally darting out of their frames and into neighbouring paintings.

The three champions are grouped around the fireplace. Krum looks so cool leaning against the mantelpiece. The light makes Fleur's long, flowing mane seem more like flames than hair. Cedric is facing the fireplace, with his hands behind his back. They all look so fucking spot on, like a splash page from one of Dudley's comic books that I used to steal when I was younger.

I trip over my own feet, stumbling a bit as I walk towards them. Fleur is the first to see me. She steps around Cedric, flipping her hair as she does so.

"Wat eez it?" she asks, with a slight holier-than-thou look on her face. "Do zey want us out in ze Hall?"

Cedric turns to face me. When he smiles, my stomach does a cartwheel. I blink once, twice – I can't seem to stop blinking, actually. "I... I..." I'm saved by Ludo Bagman's grand entrance.

"Extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinairy," he announces as he walks beside me, patting me on my shoulder and leading me closer to the other champions. I can't seem to pull my eyes from Cedric. He's still smiling.

"Gentlemen, lady," Bagman adds with a slight bow to Fleur, "may I introduce – incredible as it may seem – our fourth champion."

Viktor straightens his posture, hands clenched in a fist. Cedric manages to look nonplussed as his eyes dart back and forth between me and Bagman, unbelievingly. Fleur's surprised expression melts quickly into a half-cocked smirk.

"Oh, a very funny joke, Monsieur Bagman."

Bagman's hold on my shoulder tightens, "Joke?" He almost laughs.

"No, not at all. Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire."

Cedric's no longer smiling.

"But...he ees just a boy!" Fleur almost yells, pointing at me (as if it weren't obvious who she was talking about). Suddenly, she's not as beautiful as I once thought.

"Well, the age limit was just placed on the tourney this year," Bagman says, sounding like he's reading from a brochure, "it's far from tradition. Besides, I don't think he can back down, now... he's obliged."

At this point, I can hear everyone talking – arguing – but I can't actually distinguish what they are saying. All I hear is a booming, almost jovial, tone and a whole lot of 'v's and 'ee's. My vision becomes narrowed – tunnelled, even. I can't help but stare at Cedric, who manages to look worried, confused, and angry, all the while still looking handsome, still looking every bit a super hero.

"_Fucking attention-seeker."_

"_Shoulda' known he'd try and get in the tourney."_

"_I bet they'll let him compete, too – Dumbledore's favourite and all."_

I'm scared that's what Cedric is thinking. Why wouldn't he think that, after all? He doesn't really know me, only _of_ me. He's played– and beaten– me in Quidditch, read about me in the same books that Hermione has, and probably thought, like everyone did at one point, that I was the Heir of Slytherin. But, he doesn't know _me_ – Harry. He doesn't know that I'm scared shiteless and he probably doesn't care.

I think I realized at some point that the room had gotten significantly smaller, yet louder. Cedric's attention turns to a spot over my shoulder. It snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn to find Dumbledore, Madam Maxime, Barty Crouch, Igor Kakaroff, Mad-Eye Moody, Professor Snape, and Professor McGonagall arguing and debating. All I hear, however, is the ringing in my ears of blood rushing to my head. Still, I am vaguely aware of being called a 'little boy', of someone doubting Dumbledore's ability to cast spells, and accusations that I am to blame – undoubtedly cast by Snape. But I don't care about any of that. Cedric still isn't smiling.

"Harry, did you put your name in the Goblet?" Dumbledore asks me, his voice soft again.

"No."

"Did you ask an older student to place your name in the Goblet on your behalf?"

"No!" I'm getting angry at this point and my tone reflects that.

For some reason, I begin to think about dragons and, even more surprisingly, Charlie Weasley. Not his image, mind you, just him. It was as if someone was picking the very thought from the recesses of my mind, scooping it out as a spoon would pudding from a bowl. Thinking of Charlie wasn't a bad thing, per se. He _is_ fit, after all. He plays with dragons on a regular basis and that kind of danger is... intoxicating. When I stayed at The Burrow before the World Cup, I had so much fun talking with him about stuff: what it meant to be Quidditch Captain; the scars and little burn marks on his body (the more decent locations, unfortunately); and his affinity for nature spells, something he says is necessary when dealing with magical beasts like dragons. I once thought I caught him watching me when no one else was around. I certainly wished that he would have come with us to the World Cup, that's for sure.

"...binding magical contract."

Crouch's high-pitched squeal of a voice snaps me back to the here-and-now.

"Part of the magical contract specifies an age restriction, too," reminds McGonagall, stepping closer to Crouch, who flinches at her advance. I realize how sickly Crouch looks, far worse than when he almost blasted me, Hermione, and Ron at the Quidditch World Cup this past summer. The light of the fire only accentuates the dark circles around his eyes and the sunken cheeks.

McGonagall continues, "Since the two are in clear conflict, unless you want to postpone the tourney until the arbitration committee can render their decision..."

Bagman waves a dismissive hand, "No, no, no. We don't have time for all of that. The champions will need every opportunity to get prepared for their tasks."

Moody almost seems nervous, anxious, "But... Harry can't _not_ take part! The rules..."

"You seem awfully adamant on Harry's participation, Alastor," McGonagall says, with an arch of her brow.

"I... I'm just a stickler for the rules, is all."

"Since when?" Kakaroff sneers, eyes narrowed.

"Since I brought you before the Tribunal for crimes against the wizarding world, Igor."

The tension in the room reaches a deadly peak until Dumbledore, who had made his way to the window, turns on his heel to face us, commanding "Enough. Clearly this is a unique situation." His voice becomes soothing. I start to feel more relaxed as he slowly walks to me, peering into my eyes. "It demands a unique approach and, undoubtedly, a unique solution."

Dumbledore places his hands on my shoulders. Their weight is somehow comforting. With a smile and a nod, asks, "Knowing the risks, Harry, what do you want to do? Do you want to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament?"

Oh, bother and bullocks! I don't want to be the one to make that decision! I'd rather be told what to do in this case. I'm used to that. I've never really had much in the way of personal freedom, living with the Dursleys and then coming to a magic boarding school. I can feel all of their eyes on me: narrowed or concerned or accusatory as they wait for my answer.

And, what is my answer? Of course, part of me really wants to do it – to try and win. 'Eternal glory awaits,' isn't that what Dumbledore said? If I won, Cedric would be impressed, surely. Maybe he'd want to be my friend, even? Maybe he'd want to be more? Maybe Charlie would...

"Harry?"

I can hear a high-pitched voice in my head egging me on: 'Sod them all! You can show them!' 'You can do this!' 'You can win this tourney!' 'You're Harry bloody Potter!' I suddenly remember hearing this voice once before, when I begged the Sorting Hat to _not_ sort me into Slytherin. When I slept that night, it told me to go to Dumbledore and ask to be resorted into Slytherin. I had forgotten about that until just this moment. Why? And why was I still thinking about dragons and Charlie Weasley?

"Harry," Dumbledore asks again, bringing me out of my daze, "What is your answer?"

I shake my head.

Tension I didn't even realise was there suddenly evaporates from Dumbledore. His hands slide from my shoulders as he turns to face the other adults.

"Then it's settled," he says, almost genially, "Harry Potter will not compete."

Cedric still isn't smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**  
"It's amazing, innit Harry?"

Colin has been talking incessantly ever since he pulled me from Snape's potions class. We walk down the stairs, making sure to pay attention as they move and shift. He's so exuberant that it's almost annoying. But still, he manages to make me smile as he goes on and on about 'champions' and 'tourneys'.

"—you being picked and all. Shame that you couldn't compete, though."

"Yeah, real shame that," I say, trying to ease off the sarcasm. Apparently, I did a poor job of it. As we walk down the first-floor East Corridor towards rooms that are primarily used by the upper classes, I see out of the corner of my eye watching me. He stops walking.

I turn to face Colin and I'm immediately taken by how cute he is. I've never really paid much attention to him, before. He was much too... boisterous for me when he arrived during my second year. He calmed down last year, but he was still always so excitable. Mind you, he hasn't changed much; he still goes on and on about photography and other Muggle things. I rather enjoy his rants sometimes. Although I was raised by Muggles like Colin, I never had the opportunity to watch much telly or play on computers or any of the sort. But there's something about him now that I've never seen before.

His hair is a shag of fluffy blonde curls. They seem to float in the air even when there's no breeze. His soft, brown eyes are always so big, almost cartoonish, as if he was trying to take in as much of his surroundings as possible. When he blinks, his lashes jaunt out, dark and prominent. He sucks on his bottom lip a lot and I find myself wanting to suck on it, too. They're always so red and wet. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he was a girl. He was certainly angelic... corruptible, even.

"What?" I ask Colin, finally becoming nervous at our stillness.

Colin blinks, shakes his head, and walks past me.

"Nothing," he says, leading me to the door of a classroom.

Now, my nervousness has turned into slight discomfort. "So, what are we doing, exactly?" I ask.

He takes out his wand from his back pocket. It catches on the bottom of his shirt and I see a flash of the soft, milky skin of his lower back. Fuck, if he's not beautiful then I don't know the meaning of the word!

Colin taps on door knob three times and swishes his wand over it. I hear a 'click' and the door opens. We step into a fairly small classroom. Most of the tables have been stacked along with wall opposite from us, except for three which were lined up end-to-end. There were still chairs scattered throughout the room, which I'm sure is the reason why Colin and I are here.

"We're to set up the room for the Champions' photographs," Colin answers.

"Oh! Will you be taking the pictures, then?"

"Pft! No. Someone from 'The Daily Prophet', I reckon," he answers.

There's a large ladder as tall as the room, a hefty bag in the corner next to the stacked tables, and large metal contraptions with panels on the end with oddly-shaped light bulbs lying on the floor behind them. Colin walks over to the bag, signalling me to follow. He pulls out what must be a large, folded banner from the bag and hands it to me. 

"We need to hang the school banners behind the Champions' table," he says, pointing to the three tables at the head of the room. "Chauncey or Fawcett will be here to help in a moment. You know the sticking charm, yeah?"

I nod.

Sara Fawcett, a fifth-year Ravenclaw with long, curly black hair, walks in the room.

"Hullo, Colin. Hey, Harry!" she says with a wave of her hand.

"Hey, Sara," Colin says, handing her a folded banner with a smile. "Looks like your beard finally fell off, yeah?"

"Oh, hush," she pouts. She rubs her chin and winks at Harry. "Can't blame a girl for trying, yeah? Oh, Harry. Cho says 'hello', by the way."

I must have blushed or something because she simply walks past me and giggles.

While Sara and Colin move the ladder behind the table, I begin to move the chairs still scattered in the room to the back wall, next to the door. Once they are all stacked, I cast a spell that covers them in a soft, velvet tarp – the same material that now covers the Champions' table.

Soon, each school's banner is draped from the ceiling behind each chair where the Champion will be sitting and Colin has already filled the room with the proper fluorescent lighting needed for magical photography. It's quite the sight watching Colin 'work his magic' with the lights. He's never satisfied with it. He'll angle one light, walk to the centre of the room, look around, grimace, then walk to another light and re-angle that. He'll repeat the process until he's re-angled each light a half-a-dozen times. It's the only time I've ever seen Colin not talking and smiling.

When it comes to photography, Colin is all business. He's even sexier when he's like this.

Snapped out of my daydream by the sound of Ludo Bagman's booming laugh, I watch him walk in with a witch wearing wine-red robes firmly latched to his arm. Curiously tight ringlets of blonde hair fall down around her face, accentuating her too-tight-jaw. Her green-rimmed glasses match her two-inch coloured nails that seem far more like talons. She's followed by a paunchy man holding a camera much like the one Colin usually carries around. His eyes dart around, surveying the room in its entirety.

"Harry," Bagman's smile widens as he leads the witch to me. He places a hand on my shoulder as he introduces her to me. "This is Rita Skeeter. One of the best journalists 'The Prophet' has to offer."

"Oh, Ludo," she says, batting her eyes, "You say the kindest things." 

She looks me up and down, eyes narrowed, before extending her hand for me to take.

"Charmed, I'm sure," she says. I don't know if she's talking about her or me, but I take her hand and give it a polite squeeze.

"Real shame you didn't get to compete, Harry, after going through all the trouble of sneaking your name into the Goblet."

"Oh, I didn't put my name in," I say. I assume that she's simply misinformed, an honest mistake, really. But when her mouth purses to the side and an eyebrow arches, I realize that she doesn't believe me.

"Oh, of course you didn't," she adds, with a wink. "No fear, Harry. My readers love a rebel, especially one with a death wish." She looks me up and down before continuing, "Even if he gets caught."

Before I can defend myself, I hear the shuffling of feet from outside. Viktor walks in, sullen and surly with a slight scowl on his face. He's followed by Cedric and Fleur, who looks happier than I've seen her since she's arrived.

"Rita is going to do a small article on the Champions. You know, promotions and all?"

Rita turns to glances over to Viktor and then Cedric. "Well, I doubt it'll be... _'small'_," she says with a venereal leer. Her eyes follow Viktor as he walks over to the corner. I wonder why Cedric looks put off when Viktor's chooses a more solitary location to sulk and walks to the far corner. He looks like he wanted to follow, but Fleur draws his attention back to her. Merlin, it's annoying to see her laugh, tossing her long hair about. Does she have to touch his arm so much? And what's going on between Viktor and Cedric?

"Competition, Harry," Colin whispers behind me.

"What!"

"Oh, nothing," he quickly adds with a smile as he walks over to the man with the camera.

I should have known, really. Colin's a photographer. He spends all his extra time looking at the world and taking everything in. He can probably read me like an open book. Or maybe I'm just that transparent? I think I'm blushing, slightly; just in case, I try and pull the reigns on my emotions.

Rita pulls an acid-green quill and some parchment from her crocodile-skinned bag. I gawk when I see the quill and scroll float above her hand. The quill starts dancing around on the paper, seemingly of its own volition. I realize shortly that it's writing what she's saying, everything that she's saying. Even when she's silent, the quill continues to move. I wonder if it can follow her thoughts, as well?

"Ok, now," she announces to the room, "time for the interviews. Cedric, I'd like to start with you, if you please? Lovely." She stretches an arm to him, an offering he can't refuse.

Cedric excuses himself from Fleur – who promptly heads over to talk to Bagman, but refrains from touching him much – and walks closer to Rita. I look to see Rita staring at me with squinted, beady eyes. Had she caught me watching Cedric?

"Hrmmm... interesting," she says. I cringe when I realize her magic quill is whipping across the parchment faster than I'd seen before. She turns to face Cedric, linking her arm with his.

"Well, Cedric. How does it feel to be chosen as a champion?"

"I... I feel honoured, of course," he answers humbly.

"Oh, of course," she says with a knowing smile, "especially considering the Diggory name isn't exactly synonymous with ... glory, right dear?"

Cedric becomes visibly nervous. His hands clench and unclench anxiously.

"Wh—what do you mean?"

"Well," Rita looks around with a self-satisfied look on her face that I find repugnant. "You are quite poor, after all. I'm sure a thousand galleons would certainly help pay off some of your father's... indiscretions."

"I—I..."

Cedric begins to look around the room, hoping no one can hear them. Fortunately, it seems I'm the only one eavesdropping, even though I'm trying to look busy as I sweep the floor. I hope no one notices that I've been sweeping the same spot for the past 5 minutes. 

Rita Skeeter leans into to Cedric. Her writing utensils swing closer, as well. Now, there's a ravenous expression on her face, like a kid in a candy store or a fox in the hen house.

"I mean," She continues, "I bet it is rough trying to live up to your father's expectations, especially when he's living vicariously through his only son. I mean, what if you fail? I'm sure he's counting on you to be quite successful in life... considering he's all-but squandered the money left your mother by her parents, yeah?"

She flutters her eyelashes in mock-innocence. Cedric pulls away from her, his eyes blinking faster and more frequent than usual.

"And your dear mother," she adds with a tut, "never been the express-my-love sort, has she?" With those words, she reaches for her bag, pulling out a worn letter and unfolding it. Theatrically, she clears her throat and reads from the letter in a sardonic sing-song voice.

"What was it? 'It has come to our attention that your grades are abhorrent'... Oh, strong words. And what were you, then...? Eleven?" Another tut before she continues, "And what else? Oh, yes. 'Your father and I do not have the money to waste on an education that you care little for'... My, my."

I see Cedric's jaw muscles shifting. "Where did you get that?" he asks through gritted teeth. His sudden raised voice grabs the attention of Viktor, then Ludo.

"Ah, ah. A good journalist never reveals her sources."

Cedric grabs at the letter, but Rita jerks it beyond his reach.

"Now, now, Cedric. Manners."

Her smile becomes deadly as she continues to read, this time loud enough for everyone to hear, "'Should you wish to return home, we could find a suitable position for you on the farmlands or perhaps at a Potions Brewery where you could become a journeyman and learn a trade that may be of some use to the Wizarding world.'"

"Stop it!" I finally yell, my anger taking over. If I had wanted to be sly about it, I failed miserably. The room is now dead silent and all eyes are on the three of us. Cedric seems to notice me for the first time. His eyes widen and I swear he's on the verge of tears. Strangely, that makes him all the more wonderful to look at: on the brink of breaking. Human.

It startles Rita, who turns a narrowed eye to my direction. From behind, Cedric manages to snatch the letter from her hand and storm out of the room, jerking his arm from Bagman when he tries to stop him.

Viktor's normal scowl turns to a disgusted sneer and even Fleur looks put out by Rita's display. The magic quill continues to scribble furiously on the parchment. Rita seems satiated, walking to the Champion's table as she talks to her quill.

Bagman places a hand on my shoulder – again – and lets out a deep breath.

"Give him a few minutes to cool off, lad," he says to me. "But we'll soon need to go collect him when Ollivander arrives."

"Sir?" I ask, wondering more why he'd think me the best candidate to fetch Cedric rather than why Ollivander is coming. As should be expected, however, he doesn't pick up on it.

"Oh, for the wand weighing, my boy. Got to check all of the champions' wands and make sure they are in full working order." With a wink and a smile, Bagman heads towards the photographer, who is busy showing a delighted Colin the intricacies of his camera.

I start to think about what Rita said, trying to piece together the bits of what I heard into one continuous understanding of Cedric's history. Was he poor? Or was it simply something she exaggerated to rile him? Did his father gamble away their money? Did his mother really write that horrible letter? Is that why Cedric excelled at almost everything he did: the pressure?

I always thought Cedric had it easy. After all, he was the prettiest of students -- more handsome even than Oliver, who I had always thought was the cutest boy at Hogwarts. He was almost as smart as Hermione, especially in Charms. He was always the only student she'd go to if she had a question about the subject. And I know he's in Arithmancy, a devotion of magic that isn't for average thinkers. He had loads of friends and admirers, especially teachers. Rumour has it even Snape thought Cedric an 'adequate' student (high praise from him).

It all combined to make him untouchable and unattainable. But this new information, depressing though it was, made him more... human. 

Have-able.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

For centuries, _Conjuring_ was a discipline of magick that was revered. Those associated with the craft were thought of as amongst the most clever and intelligent of sorcerers. One must have a deep understanding of _Cartography_, _Ancient Runes_, _Astrology_, _Charms_, and _Arithmancy_ as well as impeccable artistic skills (drawing one line of a pentagram incorrectly would make the difference between a well-contained dæmon and one able to rip your limbs from their socket).

Beyond that, conjurers must be patient and be able control their emotions: succubae could entice you with their bodies, djinns with riches, dæmons with power, and baby-like imps with disarming innocence. One must be bold enough to conjure such entities and brave enough to face them. Even behind the protection of pentagrams, such an endeavor could result in what is commonly thought of as 'a fate worse than death'. The witch or wizard to call such beasts must have flawless understanding of logic; one misplaced command may allow a dæmon to turn the tide to their favour. One loophole and the conjurer could end up dead.

Aside from the vast knowledge, mental facilities, and strength of character needed, the strain on the body to tear open a rift through dimensions, yank a powerful entity from its domain, and keep them bound to your will long enough to issue a command is nigh-unthinkable. Witches and wizards have dropped dead from the strain of an extended conjuring with a less-than cooperative creature.

At first glance, Peter Pettigrew wouldn't seem the type capable of mastering the strenuous art of _conjuration_. He has always been associated with being weak and cowardly, easily bullied and effortlessly controlled, lazy and winded by the simplest physical exertions. Yet, here he stands in the damp and hidden catacombs of the _Yardas-Caves_ ten miles from Kirby-Lonsdale, protected from prying eyes and ears of Muggles by wards both ancient and infallible. He is set in the center of a perfectly-drawn pentagram, facing what appears to be a massive fire, strong enough to melt bone.

Surrounded by a second pentagram, the flames grow in intensity, filling its side of the room with dark, billowy smoke before finally dying out. The smoke continues to spread throughout the high ceilings and wide breadth of the cave's apartment, turning a shade that almost seems blacker than black, if that is even possible.

From deep in the center of the dark clouds, two angry, yellow eyes flicker. What appears to be a surfeit of sharp, blood-stained teeth shines with arcane might older than history.

"Who dares summon me?"

The voice is low, rumbling like the thunder of an impending storm. Peter can feel the shockwaves resonate through the very blood in his veins. Impressive and frightening though it was Peter stands stoic and still. Impressive and frightening though it was Peter stands stoic and still, even as the room fills with flashes of lightning and the torrential downpour of a monsoon.

With a deafening timbre, the conjured beast roars, more slowly and calculated than before, "Who dares summon me?"

But Peter Pettigrew will not answer that question. Names have power to dæmons. Even a short-sighted wizard like Tom Riddle knew that; he changed his name to Lord Voldemort, after all, hadn't he? To give a conjured entity your name gives them power over you and that could prove fatal; they would have protection from even your worst magick. Controlling such a beast would be next to impossible. Should they, in turn, tell other dæmons and magickal entities your name, your life would be as good as forfeit.

"Recreant dæmons," Peter says, in a quiet voice.

He knows the dæmon must hear him out now it has been summoned and trapped in the pentagram. The quieter Peter is the fewer ruckuses the conjured beast can make. True to this knowledge, the storm fades. Only the smoldering billow of smoke, the heated eyes, and the gnashing teeth remain.

"You have been called and you will be thus charged," Peter proclaims, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes before continuing. "I'nuck."

As if someone had flicked a light switch, the cavernous room becomes almost barren, save for Peter and the entity in their respective pentagrams. The dæmon's appearance now, however, is a far cry from what Peter expected. He expected fur and fangs, tails and talons. Instead, he sees the soft flesh of a featureless human, as if a mannequin were made real. Its look is beguiling; it seems as though it hadn't the power to harm a child, let alone a fully-grown wizard. But Peter knows that to be part of its deceit. In fact, the seeming defenselessness of the monstrosity worried him. He quickly scans around both pentagrams, hoping that he hadn't made a mistake in the drawing of the runes or the spelling of its name, either of which would allow the dæmon the chance to punch through the wards and rip Peter to shreds. He finds no errors.

"You know my name," it says despite not having a mouth that Peter can see, "only fair that I know yours, conjurer."

"Hardly fair, that," Peter smiles.

Its head cocks to the side, slightly.

"Oh, what of that British politeness? Surely things haven't changed since last I laid eyes on this world?" it asks with a light voice, utterly devoid of its previous majesty and ferocity.

"You are not here for tea and crumpets, foul beast!"

Peter spits the words with a grimace stretched across his face. Realizing that he is losing his temper, something the I'nuck can use against him, Peter takes a deep, calming breath. Peter could feel the gentle tug on his conscious. He knew the fiend was trying to scour his mind for an image he fears.

"You have been called, I'nuck, and you will be thus charged."

"And what would you have me do, master?"

Even as it spoke, the air around it began to shimmer and ripple, like calm waters after a rock had been thrown into it. Peter's eyes narrowed, hoping his last outburst hadn't given the dæmon ammunition to use against him. As if by cue, the form in front of him begins to shift and morph, turning first into some semblance of a tall, slender man with slitted eyes and almost flat face. Peter isn't flustered.

"You are to acquire _Le Grimoire de Selene_ from the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic, London, Britain."

As if giving up on the first image, the dæmon's appearance begins to shift again into a shaggy-haired dog, the size of a wolf. Peter's eyes widen, slightly, but he does not falter.

"You are to do so unseen and undetected by any and all inhabitants."

Even before the transformation is complete, fur is already giving way to sparkling silver and blue robes and a long, grey beard. Human eyes begin to form, complete with half-moon spectacles.

"You are not to answer the call of another summons save mine."

I'nuck has already abandoned that image, choosing instead a much smaller, slender figure. Grey hairs turn raven-black. The half-moon spectacles change to more rounded, wider eyeglasses. Once the lightning-bolt scar forms on the image's forehead, Peter's words stumble.

"And… and you … are…"

Thunder claps, lightning flashes. The room is again filled with a burst of flame the size of a bonfire. Laughter reverberates, bouncing from every wall around Peter, who has finally managed to break a sweat. Then, as if being directed by the wind, the smoke shoots towards Peter's pentagram.

Closing his eyes, Peter falls to one knee and whispers, "I'nuck."

Instantly, the illusion is lifted. Peter opens his eyes to find Harry Potter standing in the pentagram before him, with a devilish smile drawn on his face. The chimera is uncanny – nigh perfect, save for the red eyes where there should be green. Peter is almost offended at the colour. Lily Evans deserved better than to be mocked so by a lowly dæmon.

"You've more conviction than I thought, wizard," I'nuck says in a sycophantic voice that sounds like a thousand Harrys speaking slightly out-of-sync. It's an eerie effect, but one that was wholly expected. "I was looking forward to searing the flesh from your bones and feasting on its marrow."

For a brief moment, Peter ignores the threat and allows himself the luxury of letting the beast's words of praise stroke his ego before remembering that to do so would show another sign of weakness. The monster knew too much already, both his greatest fear and utmost disappointment.

Peter steadied himself before issuing the command again, "You are to acquire _Le Grimoire de Selene_ from the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic, London, Britain. You are to do so unseen and undetected by any and all inhabitants. You are not to answer the call of another summons save mine nor may you reveal the nature of the task or the conjurer who so summoned and charged you. You are to complete this task within the anointed astrological time on the pentagram and return here when summoned. Failure to complete your task shall result in your eternal banishment to the Hell of Hells."

I'nuck tuts with wicked sarcasm, "That's an awfully powerful book, wizard. To own such a thing will call attention to you from beasts and wizards far worse than I. Why take such risks?"

"That is not for you to concern yourself with, beast," Peter says, with conviction in every syllable. "Your concern is the task at hand."

I'nuck's smile, stolen from Harry, widens.

"To hear," it says with a bow, "is to obey."

•Š•

"… Cedric?"

I didn't have to go very far to find him. Cedric is standing along the curved stairwell that leads to the Hufflepuff's common room. His back is turned to me, but I can see that he's holding the letter from his mother that Rita Skeeter read aloud. His back is hunched over and, occasionally, I can see his back twitch. Cedric Diggory is... crying?

"Cedric?" My voice is soft, almost weak. "Everyone's waiting for you."

"Let them wait!" he yells, turning his head to face me. I can't clearly see his face, but I can see lines burrowed deep in his forehead. He's angry and hurt, and I know exactly how he feels.

He turns back to the letter, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. As I walk closer to him, there's a moment of awkward silence that seems to tighten around my throat.

"Rita Skeeter's a hag, Cedric. Don't let her get to you."

"Have you ever wondered if parents love you," he asks as his head tilts upward to look through the window, "only because they have to?"

"I…"

I'm surprised by the question and even more stunned when his eyes meet mine and he answers it for me.

"No, I suppose you haven't had the chance to ask such things."

There's venom in his eyes when he says this, as if he's almost jealous of me. Jealous of what? That my parents were brutally murdered by a madman? I'd gladly trade you, Cedric. I'd rather have a distant mother I can still touch than one that I can only dream about. The thoughts must be drawn on my face. Instantly, Cedric's lips curl under; his eyes twitch and blink in rapid succession.

"Oh, no, Harry. I'm so sorry."

I throw him a weak smile.

"No worries, mate. I understand." Yeah, I understand that even someone like Cedric can be a bit of a tosser, sometimes. I figured he was immune to that, better than that.

By now, I'm standing beside him, staring out the same window. But Cedric is still looking at me, and not surreptitiously. I begin to fidget.

"Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asks, straight out.

I've heard this question posed by almost everyone that I've come in contact with since that fretful moment when Dumbledore called my name, the only exception being Colin Creevy, surprisingly. It makes me appreciate him more, actually.

"No," I answer with gritted teeth and far more bitterness than necessary.

Suddenly, Cedric grabs my shoulders and forces me to face him. He hunches over, leaning dangerously close to my face – and my lips.

"I want you to listen to me," he says so fast that it almost seemed like one long word. "You need to be very careful, Harry. Someone is obviously out to get you. Even though Professor Dumbledore has said that they have safeguards in place to make sure none of the champions get hurt. But if what Professor Moody says about the Goblet is true – if only a powerful wizard could have hoodwinked the Goblet – then we can only assume whoever put your name in the Goblet of Fire can also bypass those security measures."

Cedric's grip is tight as he talks, getting tighter as he progresses.

"Cedric, why are you— "

"Listen to me," he says, shaking me a little as he does so. "Someone put your name in that Goblet because they obviously had some plan to hurt you. You must be careful. Promise me you'll look out for yourself"

There's a frantic desperation in his voice; I don't know whether to be flattered or scared shiteless.

"Ok. Yeah, sure."

He leans in closer, still and his eyes scan my face.

"Promise me."

And this time, his voice is soft even if his eyes are still piercing, shooting straight through me.

"I… I… Yeah, ok."

I want to kiss him. I've never wanted to kiss anyone so much. His lips look slightly chapped, like he'd wet his lips before flying in the winter's sky. Despite that, I can't help but lose myself in their curves and how red they are. I wonder if he wears lipstick. I smile at the thought of Cho pushing him down on a bed and painting his face with her make-up. I realize, to my horror, that I'm quite hard.

I push away from Cedric with one final, resolute 'I will.' I hope I look more put-off than turned on because that would simply be the limit! 'Oh, hey, Ceddie! Just thought you should know the thought of you all poofed up in make-up makes me randy. Care for a bit of how's your father?' I'm sure that would go over really well!

"We… We better go," I stammer on. "It's time for the wand weighing."

I turn to walk down the stairs when he stops me, grabbing my arm. Again, with the grip! When I turn to face him, however, his expression has changed. It's softer than it was earlier, the creases in his face have smoothed out. His grey eyes shine like silver. Heat flares in my crotch again and my mouth goes dry. Now I'm the one who can't stop blinking. The moment seems to last forever before he walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Undone.

•Š•


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

When Cedric and I return to the room with the other champions, he's in a decidedly better mood. Before he opens the door, he turns to me with a windy look on his face. He breathes in deep and, at first, I wonder what he's waiting for.

He exhales, "Ready?"

"In for the nut, in for the galleon," is my reply.

"My uncle used to say that," he says, smiling.

"I dunno where I heard it from," I admit with a shrug.

Taking another deep breath, his posture straightens, seeming to pull strength from reservoirs I could only fathom. He's so strong. Even in the face of certain adversity and animosity, not to mention possible public humiliation, he still manages to look... like a man. He reaches for the doorknob, opens the door, and stands aside, sweeping his free arm in one grand motion.

"After you," he says with a slight bow and a smile.

"Why, Cedric," I reply, with mock-surprise as I enter the room.

The room doesn't go silent, but the tension certainly grows as we gain everyone's attention. Viktor is still sulking in the far corner, leaning against the wall. He hops up once he sees us, his expression flashing to slight concern before he catches himself and returns to his more sullen moue.

To my surprise, Colin Creevy mirrors Viktor's actions. On the other side of the room, he seemed to want to run over to me. As our eyes met, I throw him a smile only to be met with narrowed eyes. He quickly turns his attention back to the paunchy man taking photographs for that hag, Rita Skeeter. I can't help wondering if I've done something wrong; is Colin mad at me? Why do I care?

The familiar dreamy and raspy voice of Mr. Ollivander rang through the room above all others, "Harry Potter. I thought I'd see you here."

The short old man with spindly grey hair as untidy as my own seemed to waltz over to me, leaving Bagman mid-sentence. As he stepped closer to me, our noses almost touching, I'm reminded of the first time I ever saw him. He's just as creepy now as then with those bally eyes that refuse to blink.

"My how you have grown," he says. I realise then that I tower over him, instead of vice versa. But I was eleven then, after all. "Still have... your wand, Harry?" he asks in a voice to breathy and low that I can barely hear him, despite being so close.

"Uh... yes, sir," I answer, in a hushed whisper. I feel faintly perturbed at the fact that he can make me feel like that scared eleven-year old; I'm sure that's how he still views me, too. I'm half expecting him to apologize for selling Tom Riddle his wand. I hope he doesn't go into his 'my-wand-is-the-brother-wand-of-Voldemort's-wand' schpeel.

From behind Mr. Ollivander, Bagman coughs. Placing his hand on Mr. Ollivander's shoulder, he attempts to guide him back to the front of the room, where the three champions have gathered behind the table and in front of their respective banners. Mr. Ollivander's gaze stays on me, however, even when he has to crane his neck to do so. And that smile... Godric's gold, that smile! It's even creepier than his eyes.

"It's time for the weighing of the wands," Ludo announces.

Only then does Mr. Ollivander seem to lose interest in me. I rush to Colin, who has managed to pry himself away from Rita's photographer and is standing by one of the window sills. He doesn't look at me when I walk over to him. In fact, he crosses his arms in front of his chest and inches away from me when I lean against the same beam. And... is he pouting?

After a bit of silence, Colin finally speaks. Still not looking at me, he says, "You and Cedric were gone an awfully long time."

"No we weren't," I counter. Were we really gone that long? Just enough for Cedric to be mean, apologize, and then seem like he wanted to ... kiss me. Maybe 'almost kissing' can stop time? It certainly felt like it was standing still, that's for sure.

"Did you have to go far to find him?"

"Nah," I reply, "He was just down the corridor."

"Really?"

Immediately, I realise that's the wrong answer. I should have said 'oh yeah, he ran all the way down to the dungeons' or 'my goodness, he was up in the Astronomy Tower!' Anything would have been better than 'oh, no! He was right around the corner.' But really... why would Colin care.

He's definitely pouting at this point. His jaw is clenched and I can hear him grinding his teeth.

"What'd you two talk about?"

"Nothing," I say with a defensive laugh, too defensive, in fact. It probably sounded like I was definitely hiding something.

Colin looks at me with disbelieving eyes, pushes himself from the sill, and walks away, muttering 'whatever' under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

I call out after him, but I don't know why. Why is Colin acting this way? Why would he care what me and Cedric were talking about? Why was he keeping track of how long we were away? I shake the cobwebs from my head and walk to the front of the room where Mr. Ollivander is standing in front of the champions' table. Ludo follows close by, undoubtedly to make sure that he's in every picture captured by the hag's photographer.

"Yes. Mademoiselle Delacour first, I believe?"

I watch as Mr. Ollivander walks to the table and stands in front of Fleur. He holds out his hand; she tosses her hair and smirks before handing him her wand.

It has barely touched the tip of his fingers when he announces, "Yes," he said quietly, "nine and a half inches... inflexible... rosewood... and containing..."

He twirls the wand between his spindly fingers like a baton, smiling as it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Bringing it closer to his face, he squints and examines it carefully. Abruptly, he pulls back, his eyes wide with bemused shock.

"Oh, my! Is this—?"

"Veela 'air," she interrupts with a coquettish smile, "from my grandmuzzer."

So, Fleur is part Veela! I make a mental note to tell Ron. Rita's magical quill is scribbling furiously on the parchment, certainly writing about Fleur's lineage. The scag!

Mr. Ollivander runs his fingers along the length of the wand. Apparently satisfied with whatever he was looking for, he swishes it in a clockwise motion; then he mutters, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers fly out from the wand tip.

With an admiring look on his face, he gingerly places the wand back in Fleur's hand.

"Temperamental, that one is. Veela hair tends to bring that out in a wand. I imagine, however, that being part Veela and related to the one who gave you the core, it handles well under your care."

He bows and moves on to Viktor. The look on Fleur's face is priceless! She can't decide between being offended or gracious. I don't blame her, either; it's hard to tell if it was a compliment or a slag-off.

Round-shoulder and (still) sullen – and what could he possibly have to be so damned surly about? – Viktor hands Mr. Ollivander the wand. There's a flash of light as the photographer made sure to grab a shot of the famous Seeker having his wand manhandled. Viktor scowled even more. 

"Hmm," Mr. Ollivander says, "this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I... Well, no matter. He is who he is."

Viktor looks just as put out as Fleur did. My, does Mr. Ollivander have a way with words. I find myself giggling. I look over and, to my shock, Cedric is looking at me. He's smiling, too, holding back a laugh that is sure to be considered rude. He winks knowingly at me. I think I blush. I don't even want to look to see if Colin's watching me. Bother! I still don't know why I care!

Mr. Ollivander lifts the wand high and examines it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes, muttering, "Yes... hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Krum, who nodded. "Ten and a quarter inches... Rather thicker than one usually sees... quite rigid..."

I hear a cough escape Rita from the side of the room. She has her hand covering her mouth and I can tell she, like Cedric, is trying to hide a laugh. Unlike Cedric, she's doing a horrible job. 

"Avis!" Mr. Ollivander cries.

The hornbeam wand lets off a blast like a gun. A number of small, twittering birds fly from the end, making a beeline to one of the open windows and out into the gold-tinged horizon.

"Excellent, Mr. Krum," he says with a smile, handing Viktor back his wand, "This should do you well in the tourney... and beyond." 

He says the last part with such knowing weight; I can't help but wonder if he's foretelling the future. He's certainly more convincing than Professor Trelawney.

"That leaves Mr. Diggory," he says, sliding down to face Cedric, who is still trying his hardest not to laugh or even crack a smile. He hands Mr. Ollivander his wand.

"Ahhh," he says enthusiastically with a smile stretched from ear to ear, "This is one of mine, isn't it? Oh, yes, I remember it well!"

The wand seems to slide through his fingers as Mr. Ollivander caresses its length like a lover. My cheeks burn as I start to imagine his fingers as mine and the wand as...

"... containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly fine male unicorn... must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail," he admits with a ginger laugh.

Unicorn hair? Doesn't Ron have unicorn hair in his wand? I could have sworn...

"Ash. . . pleasantly springy. It's in fine condition...You treat it regularly, yes?"

"Polished it last night," Cedric says, his eyes darting to me.

With a wolfish smile, he winks. I'm pretty sure I blush. I wrench my eyes away from Cedric's gaze, finally, and start fidgeting. 

"Twelve and a quarter inches," Mr. Ollivander continues, "the biggest one, yet!"

I look over to see Rita clutch at her pearl necklace with one hand and snatch the floating parchment from the air with the other. As she starts to fan herself, her eyes bulge from their sockets. Sara Fawcett hides her laugh behind her hand and even Colin seems flustered. Ludo lets out a loud guffaw before regaining his composure. I'm lost. I must have missed the joke; I hate when that happens.

"Ahh, thank you, Mr. Ollivander... champions," Ludo booms, clapping his hands, "I'd like to thank you for coming. Time to go back to your classes, I believe."

Ludo looks to me and then Colin, "If you would, please return the room to its original working order..."

Sara walks over to me with a hopeful expression on her face; she leans in closer and whispers, "Harry, d'you mind? I sort of told Cho I'd help her study for one of her exams?"

It takes me a moment to realize what she's asking. I shrug, because I'm not the one in charge, but she takes it as permission to leave. 

With a relieved expression, she says "Cheers, Harry! Ta, Colin!"

Just like that, Colin and I are left alone.

I wave my wand over the crushed velvet covers along the wall adjacent to the door, dispelling them. I start to place the tables and chairs back to their original place while Colin deals with the School banners. We complete our tasks separately without so much as a word uttered between the two of us. Finally, I've had enough. 

"Colin, are you going to fuckin' talk to me?"

I think my shoddy impersonation of being narked works; Colin freezes in his tracks and turns to face me.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? You know perfectly well 'what'," I say, crossing the room in large strides until I'm face-to-face with him.

"Everything was fine until I came back from fetching Cedric. Now, you won't even look at me, let alone talk."

"Whatever—"

"If I wanted this kind of attitude, I could have hung out with Malfoy."

Colin's eyes jerk to meet mine at the mentioning of Malfoy's name. Undoubtedly, he hates me saying I'd prefer the Slytherin git's presence to his, but, for the moment, it's true. Malfoy's taunting disdain I can handle but being ignored by someone I thought was my friend I can't stick.

"Don't..." Colin whispers, more of a plea than an order, really.

"Don't what? You know, Colin... I have better things to do if all you're going to do is slag me off!

I'm starting to get angry, now. All Colin can do is stand there and gawk at me, chewing on his lower lip. His hands clench and unclench, anxiously. He looks around the room, nervously. It's as though he's trying desperately to answer some unspoken question, fighting some unseen conflict.

And then it happens. Colin steps closer to me, grabs my head and pulls me down...

... into a kiss.

His lips are soft and sweet, like bubblegum; my hands seem to slide over angles and curves. I start to wonder if he's exactly what a girl would feel like in my arms – taste like in my mouth. With his small frame, I can't help but to feel strong in comparison, like I can move mountains and hold back glaciers. My lips cover his and, even with the occasional bump of the teeth, the kiss is heavenly, if not a little frightening.

'I could do it,' I think to myself. 'Right here, right now.' And I know I'm right. His tongue, his breathing, his heartbeat – they all tell me this; they all scream 'make a move, any move'.

When my hand slides down to the small of his back, I can feel him arch, as if he's giving me permission to go further than either of us are ready for. I place a shaky hand underneath his shirt, feeling the velvety smooth skin of his back. I can feel the tiny peachfuzz that collects at the base of his back, just above his arse. It's heavenly. Even though my mind stops working, my cock does not, rising to the occasion, literally.

Colin pulls away from the kiss and looks down at the bulge in my trousers. 

"Why, Harry... you cheeky little bugger," he whispers, his hot breath dancing across my face.

He smiles. I pull him closer to me. His hands rest on my chest and I can feel some resistance.

'Take him,' the voice chimes in my head, 'Take him and be done with it.'

Colin's eyes are the deepest shade of brown I've ever seen and so big they are almost cartoonish. But when he looks at me there's an innocence that draws me in, then drowns me.

"We should... finish straightening up," he says, weakly.

I'm already up. I look down at the front of my trousers, still bulged and hot, and Colin laughs, finally pulling himself from me.

"I meant the room, silly."

He turns to walk away, but I grab his hand and pull him back into another embrace. Our faces are close, noses almost touching. Colin's smile is so bright I fear I will go blind. He kisses me, quick and chaste.

"You know, I'd could take you to the Yule Ball..."

He scoffs, "Whatever. You'd probably take someone like... Chang or Pavarti Patil or summat."

"No, really I would! Sod them all!"

Now it's Colin's turn to blush. He looks down, resting his forehead on my cheek. When I kiss the top of his head, his hair tickles my nose. I like it. For some reason or other, we start swaying to invisible music, his arms wrapped under mine and his grip tightening on my back.

"I'm sure you'd rather take someone like..."

"Like who...?"

"... like Cedric Diggory," he says, finally breaking the silence. His head tilts up until he's looking at me eye-to-eye. He's still smiling, but it's not quite as bright -- not quite as wide -- as before. I realize that I did something to upset him. "That's ok, Harry," he assures me, "I understand. He's... perfect. And he's perfect for you."

"But..."

He interrupts me with a kiss. Not as passionate as our first kiss, but not devoid of emotion, either. I hold him tight as we embrace, a promise that he is good enough for me; a promise that I will prove that I care for him; a promise that I'll show him that I want him and deserve him.

I only hope that I don't break the promise.

Something tells me that I will.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

I must say I'm quite put off, not by the fact that I kissed Colin, nor by the fact that I liked it – a lot. No, I'm rather annoyed that he doesn't seem to be too excited about it. Having finished putting the classroom Ludo used for the 'wand weighing' back in order, Colin and I make our way down to the Great Hall for dinner. He's distant, not physically, mind you; our arms are practically brushing together as we walk. But he's distant, mentally. Now I understand how Hermione feels about me, sometimes. Blimey, is it ever infuriating?

I can hear the commotion of the Great Hall as we approach the doorway. Colin slides to the side of the door and leans against the adjacent wall.

Without so much as a look, Colin says, "You better go in before me. I'll follow…"

"Why?"

"Well, we don't want people to… talk…" he answers, one of his feet bouncing nervously.

"Why would they talk, Colin? We're both Gryffindors. Everyone knows I went to help you with the room."

"It's just… better this way," he says, finally looking at me. He seems nervous, very nervous.

"Ok," I resign with a sigh.

I walk over to him and lean down for a kiss. He purses his lips but tilts his head to the side so that I kiss his the very side of his mouth. I pull back, confused. He smiles. I shrug it off and begin to walk away when I feel his hand brush against my arm. He isn't pulling me back; it's more like he's taking the opportunity to touch me because he knows it'll be the last time he can do it for awhile. I hear Fred and George go on about how girls are confusing. But boys, apparently, are a fair bit worse, if you ask me. I start to wonder if it's even worth it.

As expected, Hermione and Ron have saved me a seat. Ron has that doe-eyed curious look on his face. He barely gives me a moment to get settled before he's on me like a vulture.

"Well?" he asks, far too jubilantly for my taste.

"Well what?"

"How was it? How was Krum? What did Mr. Ollivander say about his wand? I bet he said it was brilliant, yeah?"

Across the table, Hermione scowls from behind her copy of _The Daily Prophet_, "If I didn't know better I'd say you are quite smitten."

"Oh, rubbish! It's not everyday Hogwarts gets a star!"

I look back towards the entrance to find Colin walking in, shoulders tight and hands clenched. He stops and sits next to his brother, Dennis, and some other third years. I smile, waiting for him to look up at me. He never does. But he is looking at something – or someone. I follow the direction of his gaze to find…

… Draco Malfoy glaring back at him with his lip curled at one corner.

Has he been bothering Colin? Is that why he didn't want me to be seen with him, hoping that Draco wouldn't notice him walk in? Merlin, why can't Malfoy just leave people be? Does he have to ruin everyone's dinner?

I feel Ron bump shoulders with me, diverting my attention back to him.

"Well?"

"Well _what_?" I ask, emphatically.

"His wand!" he answers, as if those two words explain everything.

"It was a wand! It was made from … dragonstring, or summat," I say, digging into the mashed potatoes that have magically appeared on my plate.

I hear Hermione gasp. I look up and she's this stunned look on her blushed, red face.

"You—you mean… surely not _dragon's heartstring_…?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Why you look so put out, 'Mione?" Ron asks, with narrowed eyes.

"Well, it's nothing… I … just … that is, I mean to say…"

"Well, spit it out, already," Ron exclaims.

Hermione seems to perk up, answering dismissively as she continues to read _The Prophet_, "It's the same core as mine, is all."

"Blimey," Ron mutters, almost in awe of the revelation.

"Oh, speaking of 'same cores'," I say, "Cedric has unicorn hair in his. Isn't that the same as yours, Ron?"

Ron's eyes light up and a smile stretches across his face, "Yeah… yeah it is!"

"Oh, honestly Ronald. That doesn't mean _you_ could have been the Champion."

Ron scoffs, "I bet it most certainly does. 'The wand picks the wizard', 'Mione, don't you know?"

"Yes, yes," she answers with a wave of the hand, "Mr. Ollivander says that to everyone."

"Well, the wand was obviously attracted to something grand and strong about me, just like Ceddie's—!"

"Oh, it's 'Ceddie' now, is it?" Hermione asks, with a raised eyebrow.

I can't help but to laugh.

Unphased, Ron continues, "and it's _obviously _the same strength of mind and character that the Goblet saw in Cedric. Logic dictates, then –"

"Oh, it's 'logic' we're dictating now, is it?"

(I must remind myself never to drink anything when Ron and Hermione get in this state because whatever I'm drinking will invariably end up running out of my nose between fits of laughter. Luckily, I manage not to choke – or drown.)

As if there was no break in the discussion, Ron continues, "THAT..." with a roll of the eyes, "if I _could_ have competed, then I would have been picked. Just like good-ole Ceddie."

With a quick, finalizing nod, Ron pops a boxty cake in his mouth.

"Well," Hermione says with a look not unlike one of Professor McGonagall's, "Bob's your uncle, then."

Ron becomes distracted – not that distracting him is a difficult task, mind you – by the fluttering of an incoming owl holding parchment in its claws. He lands gracefully next to my plate, followed intently by Ron and Hermione's hopeful eyes, and half of the Gryffindor table.

"Who...?" Ron leans in as I take the scroll from its outstretched leg, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously, "Do – do you think it's from... you know...?"

"Dunno," I answer, honestly.

I was expecting a response from the letter I sent him about my nightmares. I begin to open the letter when Hermione throws her hand across the table, covering it.

"Not here," she whispers, quickly glancing behind her to Malfoy, "just in case."

She's right, of course. I put the letter in the pocket of my robes. I'll read it when I get to the Common Room.

•Š•

Deep in the catacombs of Yardas-Caves , Peter Pettigrew stood in the familiar pentagram. Nervous, he began to bite his rough, dirty nails. The drip of moisture from the cave's ceiling echoed down the empty corridors. His eyes darted across the room, as if searching for something, some idea that can be seen as easily as a painting.

In the second, smaller pentagram in front of him, a burst of flame flared intensely before dying out to a mere smolder. The dark, dense smoke gave way to the form of the Harry doppelganger with its offending red eyes, smiling as it held an old book that seemed far too heavy for his slight frame. Peter had to remind himself that this was not Harry; this was I'nuck, a mid-level dæmon of considerable power, mimicking Harry's appearance as a taunt. If he were not careful, he could find himself on the receiving end of a millennium-old evil far worse than The Dark Lord.

Peter stood erect and cleared his throat before asking, "Have you completed the charge, beast?"

With a mock-scowl, the demon tutted, "Now, now. Manners, wizard."

Even its voice was a mockery of Harry, deep and full of power, confident in ways that only an aeon of existence could instill. It held out the dusty tome with one hand; a leer broadened its stolen face.

"I have completed my charge, master. You see before you the _Le Grimoire de Selene_, one of the oldest books on dark magic."

I'nuck looked at the book with a curious expression before his eyes darted back to Peter, "This tome is nothing but blood magic, youngling. And I know how … squeamish you lot tend to be about such things."

It began to laugh, but Peter took no notice of it – or the taunt that preceded it.

"Were you seen by man or beast, wizard or dæmon?"

"I was witnessed by none, master."

"Was anyone made aware of your thievery?"

"No one knows of the theft save you and I," I'nuck answered with a smug bow. It seemed thoroughly pleased with itself.

With an innocent mien, its brows raised. It shook the book sumptuously, as if tempting a starving man with a slab of fine steak. In keeping with the analogy, Peter licked his lips, staring at the tome with bulbous eyes.

"Won't you come and get it, then?" the dæmon asked, innocuously.

Without so much as blinking, Peter drew his wand. Pointing down at a tray beside his feet, he whispered _'windgardium leviosa'_ and watched as the tray floated towards the dæmon.

"Place the book on the tray, beast," Peter ordered with a hint of madness in his eyes.

The dæmon's smile fell into a twitchy scowl. With a huff, it placed the Grimoire on the plate, which immediately levitated back into Peter's circle and into his hands. He took a moment to inspect his treasure, feeling the engravings on the thick cover, stroking the binding. He couldn't suppress a smile from forming.

Peter Pettigrew, the bumbling fool everyone thought a lesser wizard, had conjured and controlled a mid-level dæmon, stolen a powerful artifact from the Ministry of Magic with none the wiser, and was mere steps away from formulating a plan that would be remembered long after his body fell dead.

"Careful, little wizard," I'nuck warned, "Over-confidence has been the fall of many a'wizard."

"_Crucio!"_ Peter exclaimed, pointing his wand at the dæmon.

A deafening howl of pain leapt from its lips as it convulsed as though a thousand volts of electricity coursed through its body. Its stolen shape began to waiver as it fell to the floor, clutching at its chest. Its eyes shot daggers at Peter as it tried to catch its breath.

"That, beast," Peter spat with as much disdain as he could muster, "is for your constant temptations."

Before the I'nuck could utter a word, Peter incanted the four words of banishment and, in the blink of an eye, the dæmon was gone.

Peter sat on his knees, resting on his heels as he opened the Grimoire, hurriedly. His exuberant expression soon gave way to one of disappointed when he saw that, page after page, the book seemed to be completely blank.

"Oh, fiddle!" Peter exclaimed, exhaustively. Setting the book down, he considered summoning I'nuck again and torturing it until it revealed its treachery. But, he feared he hadn't the strength to break through the dimensions and stay guarded enough to keep the dæmon under his reign.

'…_this tome is nothing but blood magic, youngling. And I know how … squeamish you lot tend to be about such things…' _

The words came back to Peter. He mulled over its meaning before holding out his wand. Whispering 'convertere scieran', his wand transfigured into a blade. He raised his arm over the Grimoire, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then cut down the length of his arm.

Peter sucked in air through gritted teeth. Blood fell from the wound, dripping on the pages of the open Grimoire. He grimaced in pain, but soon the pain seemed to melt away as his eyes bulged at the sight of words forming on the pages, much like the Marauders' Map. Only this time, the words were made from blood… his blood.

Chubby fingers darted as he flipped from page to page, frantically. Finally, he stopped. His mouth dropped and is eyes widened. He had come to the page entitled _Resurgerie_. He had found his prize.

•Š•

**Dearest Harry,**

**I just wanted to let you know that I enjoyed the brief time we spent together before the Quidditch World Cup. Ashame that it was too brief. I'll be on Hogwarts grounds within the next day, tomorrow night, actually. I would love to see you again. In fact, I have something to show you. I bet you'll find it really… interesting, to say the least. **

**I can't wait for you to see!**

**Come to the field just behind Hagrid's hut, east of The Forbidden Forest. Come at midnight when everyone's asleep. Make sure no one knows. **

**I hope this letter finds you in good spirits.**

**Love,**

**Charlie.**

•Š•

I'm lying in my four-poster when I finally read the letter. I had hoped it was Sirius, but I find myself grinning from ear-to-ear when I realize it's from Charlie. I remember him saying something to the effect of 'maybe we'll be seeing you at Hogwarts after all' before we left The Burrow. But, I thought it was just him trying to make me feel better.

I had an amazing time over the summer, and it wasn't simply because of the World Cup or because I was away from the Dursleys or even because I was with my best mates. Charlie actually talked to me. Me! He's a dragon-tamer; he's got a cool job and gets to see and do all these wondrous things. Yet, there he was talking to me about Quidditch and dragons and magic. And, he wasn't talking down to me, like I was some prattling first year. He was talking to me like a peer, an equal. It was refreshing.

And, as fit as I think the twins are, Charlie is, by far, the top. He's like … Ron… only cuter… and funnier… and smarter… and a better flyer… oh, and he's better at Potions, too. Ron's pants at Potions, like me. But Charlie? He's a god among men, that one, shaped by years of handling dragons and other magical wild-beasts in Romania and the Ukraine and wherever the Ministry sends him.

And he wants to see me!

Me!

I read the letter, again for the hundredth time. Words like 'dearest' and 'love', phrases like 'would love to see you' and 'have something to show you' tower above the rest. In fact, the letter might as well not even have any other words. Before I pull the duvet to my chest in a vain attempt to go to sleep (which I know won't come), I smell the parchment, hoping to gain a whiff of Charlie. I realize that's a girlie thing to do, but at this point I don't care.

Charlie Weasley wants to see me!

•Š•


	6. Chapter 6

I'm dreaming of a memory. I, of all people, should know how dangerous a memory can truly be. Yet, I let it flood my mind as soon as my head hits the pillow, caressing me like the familiar touch of a lover.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I met Charlie, with his broad shoulders and broader smile. I can see his skin, tanned from his many months outdoors taming dragons in Romania. His red hair is darker than the other Weasleys, cropped tight against his scalp like a Royal Marine officer. He's the shortest of his brothers, but he makes up for it with the breadth of his muscled frame.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I heard him speak, with his soothing voice and disarming timbre. The words he spoke were spells; they bound me with invisible chains.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I touched him, a friendly shake of the hand. They were rough and calloused, like a Quidditch player's. His grip was firm and comforting, as if he was used to handling delicate things that needed to feel protected and safe. Our hands lingered together, longer than customary yet quicker than desired.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I caught him staring at me, after a rumbustious night of celebrations at The Burrow. I stole away to have a Jimmy behind one of the gnome-riddled bushes in their garden. I felt eyes follow me as I walked and turned to find Charlie watching me. That was also the first time I saw him blush through his tanned and freckled skin. He quickly looked away, embarrassed.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time Charlie touched me, trying to get around me in the kitchen to reach for a drinking mug. His fingers grazed my hip and lingered there far longer than necessary. His chest and stomach pressed against me as he leaned forward, as if the cup was beyond his reach. His crotched rubbed along my backside, his feet on either side of mine. I was engulfed completely by him, swallowed whole. It wouldn't be the last such touch over that summer at The Burrow.

I'm dreaming of a memory, the first time I saw Charlie shirtless, freshly wet from the shower. Wrapped around his waist, the towel hung low on his hips, allowing me to see the smooth, well-formed muscles that divided his stomach into eighths. My eyes fluttered as I followed the trail of dark, reddish-brown hair that disappears into the fabric. I wanted to see more. My mouth slipped open and I began to lick my dry lips. I saw the bulge under his cloth twitch.

My dream turns into fantasy; Charlie grabs my wrist, pulling me into the foggy 'loo. He captures my lips, forcing them open with his tongue. His hands rove over my body as he makes his way to the bottom of my shirt, lifting it over my head. He presses himself against my bare chest and I marvel at how my soft body feels against his, hard as steel.

"You're so young," he whispers in my mouth as we kiss, "Tell me to stop and I will."

But I won't tell him that.

"Say you don't want this..."

But I do.

"Say the word and this will end..."

But I would say anything to make sure it doesn't end. I'd browbeat him with every hex I know – or don't know – to keep his lips on mine. I'd tell him the sky was brown as tea and the moon made of porridge to keep his tongue in my mouth. I'd threaten to snuff the stars in the sky to ensure that his hands remained on my body, exploring me.

I reach down to my trousers. Not bothering to unzip them, I push them down in one swift motion, revealing my hard cock. His hands grab at the small of my back before sliding down to my arse as I kick away the clothes crumpled at my feet. He sucks on my tongue and bites at my bottom lip as I claw at his back, losing myself in the moment. His cock grows hard between our stomachs and I feel him pull me into him tighter, his fingers inching towards my hole. I want more of Charlie, more of his kisses. I find myself on my back, legs wrapped around Charlie's waist as he grinds our cocks together. He pulls away, taking in a deep breath. His eyes look deep into mine. He grasps both of our cocks in on hand, stroking it in long, slow, sensuous caresses.

"Do you want me to –?"

"Yes," I answer, breathlessly.

"Are you scared?"

"Yes."

And I am. I know what he's asking, what he wants. Although I want it, probably more than he, I still can't help worrying. What if I'm no good? What if I mess up or, worse yet, make a mess? What if he doesn't like it? What if he doesn't like me?

"It might hurt," he offers, with gentleness in his eyes like I've never seen before.

"I don't care."

He smiles, almost as innocently as I do. However, it slowly becomes lecherous before finally turning malicious. His dark skin goes pale and grey as the winter sky. His blue eyes are now reddened slits, like a lizard or a... basilisk. The fingers that were once bristled over me like an expert painter's brush on canvas are now digging into my flesh with sharp, razor-like talons.

I'm dreaming, but it's neither memory nor fantasy. I try to scream; my mouth opens but nothing comes out. I try and pull away, but his grip is unyielding and unbreakable. He laughs a cold, wicked cackle that sends shivers down my spine. It's bitter and high in timbre, full of nothing but hate and animosity. I can hear the sound of my skin being ripped, pulled and separated from my bones in much the same manner as my shirt moments earlier. I can see nothing but red as blood splatters the walls and covers my face. I can smell my exposed muscle being burned from flames that have come from nowhere. 

"Now, youngling," Charlie says in that familiar, high-pitched voice, "you are truly beatific!"

•Š•

Finally, I scream, waking wake up in my four-poster. Covered in sweat with my cock still in my hand, I jerk and spasm as my orgasm is ripped from me like a stolen prize, spraying over my stomach. The menacing laughter from my dream fades as my hitched breathing slows. I can hear feet trampling about and realize that people are scrambling towards my bed. Ron yanks back the coverings of my bed just after I pull the duvet up to my chin to hide my mess. 

"Harry," he asks, frenzied, "are you alright?"

"Crimeny! That scream—" Seamus says from behind him, scratching his head.

Even Neville' doe-eyed expression seems more pitying than worried. 

It takes me a moment to calm down enough to speak, "I'm... sorry... I had a... nightmare, is all."

Ron's eyes narrows, unsure of whether to believe me, "Are... are you sure, mate?"

"Y-Yes... I'm fine."

Begrudgingly, he lets the coverings fall back into place, leaving me to my breath... and my fear. I try to close my eyes to better relax myself. Despite my slowed breathing, I can still hear that laughter, the horrible, mocking hysterics that manages to say 'I won' without so much as a word. I want to cry. I want to go home. But Hogwarts has always been 'home' to me. And it's that realization that truly frightens me. I'm not safe here, not safe from the nightmares that torment me. I've never been so scared to go back to sleep in my entire life.

•Š•

"Oh, no! A rat!"

The house-elf screamed as though being tortured. A rodent making its way into Malfoy Manor was sure to send her to The Chamber, where many disobedient and incompetent house-elves entered, yet few returned. 

She scuttered along the kitchen in a vain attempt to catch the vile beast. She scooped at the floor, but it was no use; the rat was too quick for even her nimble reach. Another elf opened the swinging door leading to the main corridor and the rat scurried into the hallway, leaving the two house-elves to ram headlong into each other.

Methodically, the rat darted along the corridors, stopping at each room and sniffing the air that escapes from the crack where the door doesn't quite reach the floor. Finally, it stopped, hearing the sound of murmuring from further down the passageway. Two voices, both male, one gruff and hurried, the other smooth and calculating.

From behind, Tinkling snatched at the rodent with a resolute 'aha' escaping her lips. Despite catching the rat unawares, it proved no use as the beast once again evaded all attempts at capture. It dashed towards the sound of the two men with the resolute house-elf hot on its heels. Just as the rat reached the room where the two men were speaking, the door swung open, catching Tinkling directly in the head and knocking her to the ground. She lay sprawled on her back holding her bruised face as Lucius Malfoy towered over her, eyes darkened with rage.

"What is the meaning of this?" Malfoy demanded, one hand on the doorknob and the other clutching his walking cane.

Tinkling dared not tell her master about the foul rodent that managed to enter the Manor even as the rat skittered past his feet. Her bloodshot, bulbous eyes bulged in fear, watering at the ends as she fought to find the words.

"Speak, elfling," Malfoy hissed through gritted teeth, striking her with his cane.

"I is sorry, sir," she finally managed, cowering into a foetal position, "I's did not mean to interrupt you and Mr. Nott, sir. I is sorry for my...OW!"

Malfoy struck the house-elf a second time as he continued to reprimand her, "I told you that I was not to be disturbed while I was entertaining my guest. I am warning you, elf..."

Tinkling stood up, back still hunched forward and eyes wide with fear. Bowing deeply as it backed down the corridor, she continued with her pleas.

"Oh, yessir. Tinkling promises to be quieter, sir. Tinkling will be a good house-elf."

Malfoy gave her one last foreboding look before turning on his heel and walking back into his study, closing the door behind him.

Aud Nott sat in the large, leather chair in front of Malfoy's mahogany oak table. One foot propped on the pouffe, he smirked at Malfoy, amused at the man's aggravation. Malfoy stopped before reaching the opposite side of the davenport.

"You find something amusing, Nott?"

"Quite, actually," he replied.

Malfoy sat behind his desk with an inquisitive expression on his face.

"So, as you were saying...?"

Nott sat up in his seat, resting an arm on the desktop.

"Well, it's simply a matter of realities and legacies, is it not? What do you want for young Draco? Power of some three thousand wizards?" he asked, leaning further onto the desk. He spoke as if he were afraid of prying ears, "I, for one, have far more grand designs for Theodore."

"Oh, really?" Malfoy asked, with an exasperated release of breath. "And what, pray tell, are those... 'designs'?"

"Why control just wizarding Britain when you can control all of Britain?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, "And how do you propose to do that?" he asked. Although he sounded nonplussed by Nott's suggestions, in truth, he was intrigued.

"Well, I've found out – and I'm surprised you didn't know this – that the Minister of Magic always communicates with the Prime Minister of Britain, whose chief aides are predominantly magicians... or squibs."

"Your point?"

"My 'point' is simply that, if other countries can integrate Muggle and Magical government, why not Britain?"

Malfoy scoffed, "What, you mean like the Germans? Or better yet, the Americans?"

"You laugh, Lucius, but the American Malfoys are doing far better than you lot."

Malfoy's smile vanished quickly. Nott could see the irritation quelling in his eyes.

"The Dark Lord is gone, Lucius. He's not coming back. It's time to think of the future... and the future of our children. Don't you want greatness for your son, for your name?" Nott asked as he stood.

Malfoy's eyes didn't follow his guest as he made his way to the door of the study.

With his hand on the doorknob, Nott turned to face Lucius, still gazing weightily at his stacks of books along the shelved wall.

"Think about it, Lucius. The time has come for us to aspire to greater things other than following madmen to their doom. The Dark Lord lost his battle... and he lost it to a one-year old boy. Is that who you want to swear your allegiance to?"

If Nott wanted an answer for this, he didn't wait. In a short second, he was out of the study and off Malfoy grounds.

Malfoy remained seated, fingers pressed together at his lips. His eyes darted around the room; clearly he was thinking heavily about Nott's proposition.

He shook himself out of his reverie and exclaimed, "No... it's preposterous! It could never be... it would never work... The Dark Lord–"

"—Can be dealt with, most assuredly," came a high-pitched voice, squeaky and strained.

Malfoy stood, wand at the ready, pointing at the source of the voice in the corner to his left.  
"Who dares...!"

Peter Pettigrew cowered, hands stretched out.

"Peace, brother! Peace!" he exclaimed.

Malfoy eyed him warily before speaking, "My, my, my. If it isn't Peter Pettigrew. I thought you had been obliterated by that beast of a man – Sirius, was his name?"

Peter's arms fell lightly to his side as a smile stretched across his lips, revealing his bucked teeth.

"I am not without my resources, Lucius," he answered with a slight bow.

"Obviously. Killing a dozen or so Muggles, framing Black for it... I'd have thought you neither the power nor wits to accomplish such things."

Malfoy secured his wand back in his pocket, before turning his back on Peter and walking to his liquor case and pouring a glass of firewhiskey.

Peter took offence to the slight, "I had wits – and power – enough to stay alive, well hidden from those Death Eaters who wanted me dead. Not to mention doing it right under the nose of Albus Dumbledore... for little over eight years, I might add." His puffed out his chest at this, tossing Lucius a brazen smirk.

Malfoy took a dram from his whiskey. "Yes. And remind me why I shouldn't kill you for your treachery?"

"I only betrayed two people that night, Lucius. And they remain dead. The Dark Lord, however, remains in my care."

Malfoy's eyes widened.

"How much did you hear...?"

"Oh, you mean of your and Nott's impending coup?" Peter asked, taking a seat in Lucius chair and propping his feet on the desktop. "I heard it all."

Malfoy's heartbeat quickened. A thousand excuses came flying to the front of his mind, each as unconvincing as the last. Peter laughed at Lucius' discomfort.

"Ah, yes. The 'lump of a boy' finally has something on the great Malfoy. It's priceless, that look on your face!"

Malfoy scowled, his lips drawn tight against his teeth.

"What do you want?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.

Peter took his feet off the desk and stood.

"I want..." he trailed off, "I want to make a deal with you Lucius Malfoy."

"A deal?" he asked, suspiciously, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes. A deal. One that will give you – and me – everything you need to make your ambitions come to fruition."

Malfoy smiled, "Oh? And what do I need for that?"

The silence was deafening as Peter stood, still. His eyes radiated with hunger and greed. He licked his dry, chapped lips as steadily walked to stand in front of Lucius.

They stared at one another, unblinking, until Peter broke the silence, "A world _without_ The Dark Lord."


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

I felt miserable the next morning. After the nightmare, I simply couldn't go back to sleep. Dreaming of Voldemort is one thing, but having everything I felt the summer at The Burrow for Charlie thrown in my face and twisted into something foul and loathsome… that was almost unbearable.

_Dear Sirius..._

I've been staring at those words for the last 20 minutes. I sit alone by the fireplace in the Common Room. It's so early that no one's here except some house-elves who are working frantically to clean without disturbing me.

_Dear Sirius,_

_Have you ever..._

Bollocks! I'm sure that would go over well. 'Hey, Sirius – ever fancy a bloke?' Or better yet, 'Hey Sirius, ever wanted to throw Remus on the floor and shag his brains out?' I shudder at the thought. Of course he hasn't! He's Sirius! He's cool and clever and a great wizard.

I shake those last thoughts from my mind. Surely being gay has no bearing on one's greatness, does it? Am I even gay? Maybe I just think Charlie's cute… and Colin… and Cedric. Awful lot of 'C' names in there. But, I think Angelina's fit, and Katie Bell, too. Does that make me bisexual? Maybe Charlie's just a fluke… along with Colin... and Cedric... and Fred and George... oh, and of course there was Oliver, he's rather—

Okay, that's enough! I need to stop these thoughts! I'm getting nowhere. Focus, Potter – write the letter.

_Dear Sirius,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good spirits…_

I daze off again, remembering those words from Charlie's letter. I can't help but smile. Tonight's the night.

Okay, okay. Focus.

_Dear Sirius,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I bet you've heard by now that my name came out of the Goblet of Fire for the Tri-Wizard Tournament. You can relax though, I'm not competing. Professor Dumbledore gave me the choice and I chose not to (of course!)._

_Anyway, I need to talk to you. About my parents. There's so much I don't know that I need to know. I know that times are scary for you, right now. But, if I talk to the Headmaster I'm sure he can arrange for some protection or something and then maybe you can come back to the castle. I'd rather speak to you face-to-face if you don't mind._

_Please send a response with Hedwig._

_Be safe,_

_Harry._

I let the ink dry on the parchment, blowing on it to speed it along. Suddenly, hands cover my eyes and I instinctively try to hide the letter.

"Guess who?"

"Uhm..."

Colin releases me and sits across the table. "It's me, silly," he says with a pout, feigning hurt feelings.

"I knew that, uhh... what's your name again?"

"Oh, aren't you the clever one?"

Colins leans over the table and kisses me. He tastes of fresh mint and toothpaste and his lips are soft and plush, far too red to be allowed.

As we kiss, someone bellows, 'awww' from behind me.

Startled, I pull away to find Colin's brother, Dennis, walking down the steps from the first and second-year's floor. He's holding one of Colin's cameras, which seems a lot bigger when held up against his small frame.

Dennis looks like Colin in many ways: the same eyes, the same smile. His disposition is just as jubilant and bubbly. But he's more... rough. He looks like he'll outgrow Colin by a head, certainly and will look more mannish if he can only get rid of the baby fat on his cheeks.

My shock at being caught snogging Colin must be obvious. Dennis sits next to his brother, hands him his camera and smirks.

"Oh, I already know," he says matter-of-factly.

I look to Colin, who's biting his lip, hoping that I don't explode (I tend to do that).

"He's my brother," he shrugs, "how could I not tell him when I'm so happy?"

He beams that smile again and, if I were angry, I certainly couldn't be after that display.

"Come on, then," he says, hopping from his seat on to my lap, "take our picture, Dennis."

"Really?" Dennis croons.

"Yeah. The lighting here is not up to snuff, of course, but..." he turns to look in my eyes, "the scenery is perfect."

Dennis' eyes light up with excitement as he positions himself in front of us, peering through the optic lens and pointing the camera in our direction. Colin wraps his arms around my neck and smiles.

"It'll be a wizard photo..."

"So it'll move?" I ask.

Dumb question, of course it'll move.

He laughs, but not unkindly. "Yeah, that means when the flash comes, don't stop moving until it it's gone."

"What?"

But my confusion is drowned out by Colin's flashbulb popping, filling the room with the purest white light. It completely drowns out everything, washes the colour away from our surroundings. Time seems to stop. No, time _does_ stop, except for me and Colin. It's like we're stuck in a room with no floors, walls, or ceilings. There's no sound or movement, except for he and I. There is only this all-consuming whiteness that defies all logic and reason. I've never felt this sensation before, like I'm a part of everything and nothing at the same time. It's almost as if we've side-stepped reality and taken refuge in a pocket dimension that belongs to us and only us. Maybe that's exactly what we've done.

Colin places his hand on my face, gently tilting my head until I'm looking directly at him. His jubilance is gone. That child-like innocence has been replaced with something more feral, licentious.

"Kiss me, Harry."

The words reach my ear before his lips finish moving and long after, as if there were a chorus of Colins making the request. The sound of his voice wraps around me, envelopes me. It fills my bones and chills my blood. I lick my lips in response and lean forward, wrapping my arms around his waist. Our lips touch and I feel him gasp into my mouth. He reaches up with his other hand and holds my face still as he tilts his head and kisses, then tilts the opposite way and kisses again. His tongue parts my lips and dances in my mouth. His hand slides down my chest, brushing against one of my nipples through the material of my shirt. I tense; he smiles against my mouth, but his hand doesn't stop. Instead, it makes its way to my crotch. He cups my hard cock and gives it a light squeeze, making slow rubbing movements with his thumb. I almost loose himself in his kisses and his groping. I want to lift him up and fuck him right here, in this vast void that seems to diminish everything, yet make them a thousand times more intense.

Abruptly, the white light begins to collapse on itself, bringing the room – and Dennis – back into focus. Colin's lips are still latched on to mine, his tongue still caressing the inside of my mouth.

"I hope it comes out okay," Dennis says, gingerly placing the camera on the table.

Colin pulls back. His eyes dart across my face, inspecting every pour, memorizing every line and crease. I can't help but be mesmerized by him. The confidence he exudes – the courage – he makes me feel like I could take on Voldemort... and win.

"I'm sure it'll be perfect," he answers with a smile.

We hear the pattering of feet from the stairwell. Colin slides off my lap and walks to his brother's side just before some second-years enter the Common Room. I slide my chair closer to the table in the hopes of hiding my hard-on.

Nigel Desmith, one of Dennis' friends, swings by the table, clapping him on the back.

"Wotcha, Dennis – Colin?"

His eyes dart to me, but he doesn't say anything.

"Ready for breakfast?" he asks.

Colin and Dennis stand and slide their chairs under the desk. Colin doesn't take his eyes off me.

"Ready," Dennis answers. "See ya, Harry!"

"Thanks for the picture," Colin says as he makes to walk away.

I call out to him, "Hey! When can I see the picture?"

"Meet me in the darkroom before dinner," he answers, walking backwards towards the door. "We'll uhm... see what develops."

With a wink and a nod, he's gone and I'm left with a raging hard-on and no one to take care of it. Tease.

•Š•

The Owlery had been moved to an adjacent tower for easier access for the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang schools. For Hogwarts students, however, it is quite the trek, especially during crisp, cold mornings such as today. I trudge along the winding cobble-stoned trail looking over my letter once more. I've known my godfather little under a year, now. I don't want to sound like a whinging prat.

As I reach the topmost steps, I begin to hear voices, two of them, in fact. I slow my pace, not wanting my steps to give me away. (It's funny how when you want to be quiet, every step – every breath – appears to be amplified ten-fold.)

"… can't believe you're being like this," I hear one of voices say.

"Well, I'm pretty fed up, Roger," the other person snaps, venom in each word.

The second voice is more familiar. I creep closer to one of the open windows of the tower to get a better listen.

"We have plans, you break them," the familiar voice says, "yet, you have plenty of time for Fleur."

"Cedric…"

Cedric?

The other voice, the one belonging to Roger, continues, "There's no need to get shirty over it. Fleur isn't going to be here much longer. She'll be leaving after the tourney." His tone is insolent, as if berating a child. I find myself almost offended... how _dare_ he? Cedric's no bloody sprog!

"Oh, and I'm here forever, then?" Cedric asks, condescendingly. "Is that it?"

"Well… not in so many words, of course."

"I get it, now," Cedric laughs, "You can treat me like shite all you want because never mind good ole Ceddie, he'll always be here waiting, yeah?"

"Oh, come off it, Cedric. Don't be that way."

"What way? 'Shirty'...?" Cedric spat, his tone mocking.

"Shhh! Keep your voice down!" Roger hissed.

"Why the fuck should I?" Cedric's practically screaming, now. "Who's going to hear us? Who's going to see us? We're at the top of the Owlery at 6:45 in the fuckin' morning!"

"You never know—" Roger tries before being cut off.

"I bet you're going to ask her to the Yule Ball, aren't you?"

Now, it's Roger's turn to get angry and bothered, "Oh, did you really expect me to take you?"

Did my ears just make up that whole exchange? Did my brain suddenly decide to trick me into thinking Cedric and this 'Roger' bloke – whoever he is – were… dating?

Cedric's answer is weak, his voice strains as he answers, "Maybe I was."

"That's rubbish, Cedric and you know it," Roger exclaims, sounding slightly hurt. "I can't believe you, of all people, would lie to prove a point."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you, sodding coward."

There's silence in the room, now – maddening and strenuous. It seems to last forever, like being stuck in that weird time hole brought on by Colin's wizard camera. A thousand thoughts swim in my mind as I try and wrap my head around the implications of this… lover's spat? Is that what this was? I'm so distracted that I don't hear Roger's footsteps stomping towards the door. By the time I realise anything, Roger is already standing outside, staring at me as I lean against the building.

"Oh, ahhh… hello," I say, sheepishly.

I realize that 'Roger' is Roger Davies, sixth-year Hufflepuff and captain of the Quidditch team. He's a handsome lad, certainly, if a little stuck on himself. If anyone thought Draco Malfoy was bad, they must have not met Roger Davies. His ego is large enough for three Slytherins.

His eyes pierce through me, narrowed and reproachful.

"What are you doing sulking about?" he asks, more an accusation than a question, really.

"I wasn't 'sulking'," I retort, rather sulkily, "I've a letter to send."

He walks over to me, stepping closer than my comfort level affords.

"What did you hear?"

"I haven't the slightest notion what you're referring to, Davies," I reply, mustering as much of a derisive sneer as I possibly can. I must say, I bet I give Malfoy a run for his money.

Roger gives me the once-over before storming down the steps and walking back to the castle. I take a deep breath, trying to decide if I should just leave Cedric in peace and come back later.

I step in the Owlery's foyer where Cedric stands with his back to me looking through the window along the fall wall. I hope he doesn't question me like Roger had. I doubt I could lie so convincingly to him.

"Cedric…?"

He turns to face me and smiles. Even from this distance I can see his puffy, bloodshot eyes. This makes the second time I've caught him crying, the second time I thought him beautiful for it.

"Good morning, Harry."

Cedric's hair is a dishevelled mess, as is his clothes. It's almost as if he just finished wrestling; his wizard's robe is open, revealing his white Oxford shirt only half tucked in. His tie hangs loose around his neck, almost threatening to fall by the wayside. I've never seen him in such a state. He's always been so... perfect.

"Uhm... I…"

I'm at a loss for words. Before, I had a _reason_ to be there when he broke down. What's my excuse now?

"… Post," I say, holding up the letter, as if that answered the unspoken question that I'm not even sure he was asking.

Cedric nods and turns away, looking out of the window as he leans on the sill. Slowly, I walk to his side. We have a spectacular view of the Forbidden Forest and, to its west, the Great Lake. I smile as I try to find the area where I'll be meeting Charlie tonight.

"You heard it all, yeah?" Cedric asks, bringing me out of my daze.

'Now's the time,' I tell myself, 'Lie just like you lied to Roger.'

"Yeah."

"That's… not the way I wanted to come out to you," he offers, still staring at the Great Lake.

I turn and look at him, quizzically.

"You have no obligation to come out to me at all, Cedric," I offer. "It's none of my business."

"Are you seeing someone, Harry?"

Again, I tell myself to lie to him, to say that I'm single, available. Part of me believes that, too. After all, Colin and I have yet to actually say that we're together, right? He hasn't called me his boyfriend or anything of the sort.

"… Yes."

He jerks his head to look at me.

"Really?" he asks, with far too much surprise for my liking.

"Yeah," I reply, swallowing hard.

"Who?"

After a beat, I answer, "Colin Creevy."

His eyes widen and his jaw drops, though his lips remain tight.

There's a dramatic pause before he continues, "I can totally see it."

"Sorry?"

"He's beautiful. You two would look beautiful together."

I blush, a piece of me feels the same. But, there's another piece of me that wants to sod it all and just grab Cedric and kiss him. To hell with the Colins and Charlies of the world! But where's that 'Gryffindor Courage' gone to? Colin had it. I'm shamed by his courage. After years of me hiding from him, avoiding him, and treating him like an annoyance, he was brave enough to kiss me without regard to the consequences. I'm the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived! I've faced Voldemort three times, fought off a horde of Dementors, and avoided being mauled by my professor-turned-werewolf. This should be easy! We have so much in common: Seekers, wizards, and uhm… well, er... boys. Okay, maybe we don't have _that_ much in common. Regardless, this shouldn't be that difficult a task. Yet, here I stand, a letter held too tightly in my sweaty hand, too scared to move – too scared even to breath.

His eyes dance across my face, again, stopping short of my lips before veering off to my neck. His eyes begin to fall into a slow blink and his smile slowly becomes genuine. Abruptly, he pushes himself from the window sill and reaches for the top buttons of his oxford. My throat gets dry and my cock begins to swell as I envision him taking off his shirt to reveal his taut body. Instead, he buttons his shirt and straightens his tie, his gaze still fixed on me.

"Shame that I waited too long then, yeah?" he asks.

Was that a rhetorical question or did he actually want an answer? Regardless, Cedric didn't wait for a response; he simply walked away. His arm brushed against mine as he made his way out of the Owlery. Before the door closed behind him, a slight breeze carried his scent of ocean and vanilla to me. I was left dazed, confused….

… and wanting more.


	8. Chapter 8

**

* * *

GOBLET OF TREACHERY: Smutty Entr'acte – I **

**

* * *

Extra Notes:** This is an extra scene – an intermission from the regular story arc – and features pure, unadulterated smut. If you are considered a minor in your region DO NOT READ! The regular story arc will proceed next week!

**Special Pairing:** Viktor/Cedric

**Timeline: **This interlude takes place sometime between Chapters 3 & 4

* * *

Viktor Krum loved many things about Hogwarts. Certainly, the weather was more appropriate for flying, which he loved to do (with or without Quidditch). Even on the colder days, when the air was biting and crisp, they were still excellent skies to fly in.

Compared to Durmstrang, Hogwarts had better post-game amenities, as well. It wasn't until after Krum made the professional Bulgarian team that Durmstrang suddenly became interested in keeping their sports facilities up to scratch. So, they didn't have things like _caldariums_ or _tepidariums_. Surely, they had locker rooms and showers, but they held no tradition nor did they nod towards a legacy. Not like Hogwarts.

The students still called the **_Balneum_** by its more mediocre and pedestrian name, 'the showers'. But Viktor loved calling the various rooms by the names the ancient Greeks gave them: _Apodyterium_ instead of 'changing room' or 'locker room', _laconicum_ instead of 'sauna' or 'steam baths'. Russia had _banyas_, for certain, especially in his home town of _Vologda Oblast. _But those were no more than a medium-sized room with a large stove where people could pour water over the burning wood to create the steam. That was so plebian compared to Hogwarts' Balneum, which was second only to the baths provided by his Bulgarian Quidditch team.

Yes, Viktor Krum loved many things about Hogwarts. Cedric Diggory watching him was one of them.

Viktor had no misunderstanding of his family's expectations. Cedric could never give him children. For that, he would need a woman. Hermione Granger was perfect. She was pretty (and did not know it) and intelligent (and did know it). And she was a fighter, strong and ferocious, though her demeanor seemed less so. Cedric…? Cedric was pretty and intelligent, as well; and the Goblet had chosen him as a School Champion. For a pureblood wizard, taking in a male lover was overlooked – if not altogether expected – so long as the 'relationship' was understood to be simply what it was: carnal.

The girls of Hogwarts were unapologetic about fawning over Viktor, except Hermione. Maybe that's one thing that attracted him to her? The boys – the ones not being sycophantic – were less obvious, save Draco Malfoy, of course. Cedric Diggory, on the other hand, managed to be both ambiguous and obvious at the same time. On the one hand, he seemed preoccupied with the Potter kid. Yet, almost every time Viktor came to the Quidditch pitch to fly, Cedric sat in the stands, pretending to read a book.

Every time Cedric came to watch him, Viktor would be more daring in his manoeuvres. He'd try only the difficult moves he knew he could pull off, moves that made him one of the most sought-after Seekers in recent history. Moves that he knew Cedric, being a Seeker himself, would appreciate.

Viktor landed a few feet from the stands to the roaring applause of his current staple of feverish fans, mostly lower-year girls. He gave no notice to their squawking and squealing as he made his way to the Balneum. He could feel Cedric's eyes follow him, boring into him. He managed to suppress a smile. With Potter nowhere in sight, he knew he would have Cedric's undivided attention.

Eye contact.

A small smile.

A slight arch of an eyebrow.

Viktor strode past Cedric, still seated in the stands pretending to read his book. Their eyes locked, although he didn't stop or even slow his pace; he could see Cedric's adam's apple lurch in his throat.

He made it to the door of the Balneum, turned to give one final, unspoken signal, and disappeared behind the closing door. He hoped Cedric would pick up on it; he was never good with flirting or hints of this sort. He never had to be. He was, after all, Viktor Krum.

Sitting on one of the benches parallel to the row of lockers, he waited for a moment before removing the thick, leathered Quidditch gloves followed by the tough chest plate and boots. He dimmed the lights with a wave of his wand before standing and pulling his shirt over his head. A full-length mirror adorned the wall opposite him. He gave himself the once-over, rubbing his hand over his pectorals then down to his muscled stomach before hooking a finger under the waistband of his trousers. Before he could pull down his slacks, light filled the room.

"Like what you see?"

Viktor spun on his heels. Cedric stood, leaning against the open doorway. Arms crossed, he had an impish grin stretched along his face.

"Do yoo?" Viktor asked, straightening his posture and pulling down his trousers and undergarments in one fell swoop.

Cedric's eyes darted down for one quick, fleeting moment as he licked his lips.

"I've seen worse."

"Surely not zat Potter boy, no?"

Viktor mentally berated himself for the tinge of jealousy in his voice. He opened one of the lockers and pulled out a towel and wash cloth.

"And here I thought you liked them… bookish," Cedric said, walking in and closing the door behind him. "And female."

"Are yoo a girl, then? Because thiz ees thee boys Balneum," Viktor said with a sly grin, turning to walk towards the corridor that lead to the showers. "I would ask yoo to join me but I do not think my eyes are green enough for yoo."

He heard Cedric laugh before casting a locking charm on the Balneum's door.

The main showers consisted of three core faucets that came up from the ground, each branching out into five taps in a circular pattern. Another tray, rounded like a donut, encircled each central spigot, covered in dried soap. Viktor flicked his wand and the showers spat hot water, filling the room with steam almost instantly. He stood underneath a stream of water, letting it wet his face and hair. He his eyes jerked open when he felt smooth, soapy hands caress his chest and the unmistakable feeling of a cock pressing against his arse.

Viktor arched his back into Cedric, rotating his hips slightly. He could feel his cock engorging even as calloused hands slid down his shoulders. Cedric interlocked his fingers with Viktor's and folded their arms in front of his chest, hugging him. Viktor could hear Cedric breathing into his ear.

"Do you do thees wiv every boy?" Viktor asked, a husky, coy undertone in his voice.

Cedric answered him by spinning him around, pulling him close, and latching on to his lips, spreading them open with his tongue. Viktor grabbed a handful of Cedric's hair, pulling and tugging whilst scratching at his back with his other hand. Cedric moaned into his mouth; Viktor smiled before attacking his neck.

He loved how his shoulders jutted out, much too square for a Seeker, really. He admired how Cedric's hair twisted into tiny ringlets along the nape of his neck when wet.

Their hard cocks rubbed against their stomachs as if fighting for dominance. If Cedric wanted to be the one to top, Viktor thought, he'd have to work for it. But even as that defiant notion ebbed from his mind, his hole had other plans. It puckered like a ravenous maw when Cedric snaked a hand around his waist and grabbed a handful of ass-cheek. Viktor could feel Cedric's fingers inching towards his opening, cautiously. Viktor silently gave permission by wrapping a leg around Cedric, giving him easier access to his hungry orifice.

One of Viktor's hand pulled Cedric closer while the other slid between their stomachs. His fingers wrapped around their dueling rods, stroking their lengths with long, sensuous caresses. Cedric's middle finger poked and prodded Viktor's tight arsehole, rubbing it in small circles. Viktor gasped when a finger slid in a fraction, involuntarily squeezing their cocks together even tighter.

Without fanfare, Viktor pulled away. Before Cedric could protest, Viktor swept Cedric off his feet, tossing him over his hip. Cedric found himself sprawled on the wet, hot floor, water hitting his chest and face. Like a panther, Viktor was atop him in mere seconds, grabbing at his wrists and forcing Cedric's legs open with his own thighs.

"Did yoo think yoo vere goweeng to fuck me?" he purred, a leer on his face.

Cedric squirmed. "The thought _had_ crossed my mind, yes."

Viktor laughed as he let go of Cedric's wrists and found his ankles. He lifted Cedric's legs over his head. Cedric noticed that Viktor's movements seemed… slow and cumbersome. He understood it for what it meant: Viktor had no real assumptions of topping Cedric. Instead, he wanted to earn the right, the privilege. Cedric, then, would give him a run for his money.

Cedric rocked to the side, squirming furiously. Pushing Viktor back with the swing of his legs, Viktor lost his balance and with one swift motion, Cedric was precariously atop his opponent. Viktor used the momentum to his advantage, duplicating Cedric's move. Within seconds, the two were rolling around the tepidarium floor, laughing and splashing water as they went. Despite their frantic wrestling, they managed to capture each other's lips.

They continued to wrestle, one man losing just enough leverage for the other to take the advantage. They heaved and squirmed and grappled until eventually, Viktor found himself sitting high on Cedric's chest, pinning Cedric's shoulders and arms with his kneeds. His cock was dangerously close to Cedric's mouth, the bulbous head beginning to poke out from the foreskin. Viktor leaned over, his hands on either side of Cedric's head and moved his hips left and right, slapping his growing dick against Cedric's cheek, chin, and mouth. Cedric laughed and he tried to capture Viktor in his mouth.

"Yoo like?" Viktor asked between pants and chuckles.

Cedric stopped moving his head. "I'd like it a lot more in my mouth... so would you."

Viktor couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed the back of Cedric's head and forced his cock deep down his throat. Cedric barely had enough warning to open his mouth wide enough. Even still, teeth grazed along the length of the shaft, making Viktor breathe in through gritted teeth.

Cedric's eyes began to water as Viktor's impressive meat filled his throat, threatening to suffocate him. Instead of pushing him away, however, he grabbed a handful of Viktor's arse and pulled him closer, taking him as far as he could and nuzzling against his bush before pulling back enough to allow for air.

"Zamechatel'nyj!" Viktor cried, his hips moving as if possessed by some mysterious rhythm. "Vash rot chuvstvuyet seb'a podobno nebesam!"

Cedric took the alien language as a sign that he was doing something right. Viktor's head was lolling back, his eyes closed in bliss. As Cedric's tongue slid across his length, Viktor began chewing on his bottom lip.

"YA mog zhit' i umirat' v etom rtu!"

Cedric mumbled, "mmwhamm?"

But Viktor understood. A thin string of precum and spit stretched between the tip of Viktor's cock and Cedric's lips when he pulled out. Viktor slid down his chest and leaned in to seize his mouth.

Between frantic kisses, Viktor whispered, "I said 'I can lif and die in thees mouf'..."

Cedric pulled himself up, wrapping his free arm around Viktor, who remained on his lap. They sat on the shower floor, one on top of the other, for what seemed an eternity. Cedric wrapped his arms around Viktor and forced him further down his lap, grinding his hips and teasing Viktor's arse with his dick.

"I want to fuck you, Viktor," Cedric muttered between kisses. "Please, let me fuck you..."

Abruptly, Viktor slid off Cedric's lap, who was worried by the sudden movement. He wondered if he had offended him. Instead, Viktor turned around on all fours and waited. It took a moment before Cedric realised what was being offered to him. He quickly set himself between Viktor's legs and rested his hands on the small of his back. With his cock nestled between Viktor's arse cheeks, Cedric slowly began to grind, enjoying the feel when Viktor would flex and tighten himself.

"I... I don't have my wand..." Cedric announced, breathlessly.

"Don't vorry about it..."

"Wh-what? But... lubrication..."

"Juss do it," Viktor begged.

"I-it'll hurt."

Viktor looked back over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed.

"I like it to hurt," he said. "I am man enough to take eet."

Cautiously, Cedric pulled back far enough to find Viktor's hole with his a finger. It twitched and puckered when the digit grazed along the rim. Cedric used the finger as a guide until the tip of his hard cock rest firmly atop the orifice. Viktor took a breath through gritted teeth when Cedric gently pushed the head in. Cedric felt engulfed by a warm tightness; moment of bliss faded, however, when he heard Viktor cry out in pain.

"Are... are you alright?" Cedric asked.

Viktor didn't respond with words. Instead, he pushed back into Cedric, impaling himself on the full length of Cedric's cock. This time, it was Cedric who cried out, his eyes slamming shut in pleasure. He was still, reveling in the feel of Viktor's arse – tight and unrelenting. Viktor began to rock back and forth on his hands and knees, panting as Cedric slid in and out of his hole, now aching and raw.

Cedric tossed away all notions of politeness. He remained squatted as he got to his feet, leaning against Viktor's back. He moved his hands up to Viktor's shoulders before furiously pumping into Viktor. He would pull out as far as he could before slamming his cock to the hilt, burying it balls-deep. Occasionally, Viktor would squirm and try and pull away, but Cedric had a firm grip on his shoulders; he locked him in place, refusing to let him move, unless it was to match his thrusts.

Viktor began pumping himself in tandem with Cedric's rhythm. English had long-since faded from his mind. He began calling out in Russian, or Bulgarian – Cedric didn't know, he didn't care. All he cared about that feeling of inevitability he felt rising from the pit of his stomach, firing every nerve synapse in his body.

A howl of pleasure echoed in the room; Viktor stopped thrusting back in to Cedric. The hand pumping at his dick stopped as well. Cedric could feel Viktor's arse constrict, squeezing him even tighter than before. Cedric could feel the orgasm being ripped from him, filling Viktor to the brim with hot spunk that oozed out and dripped onto the aqueous floor. Cedric's movements became spastic as the last of his finality ebbed into the olive-skinned lad. He fell atop Viktor, kissing his shoulder and back between attempts to catch his breath.

Viktor pulled away, letting the cock unsheathe from his arse. He turned and sat in front of Cedric, pulling him into a gentle kiss. Viktor inspected his face, smiling.

"Ees good, yes?"

Cedric laughed at the absurdity of the question. "Of course it was good... very good."

"Yoo fuck like a Russian," he said as he stood and extended his hand. "Nice and hard."

Cedric accepted the proffered help, not quite sure he could trust the strength of his own legs and knees.

"Thanks," he replied. "I think."

Viktor stood under a shower faucet, grabbing the bar of soap and lathering himself.

"But I think you shoold be fery careful wif Potter," he said with a wink. "He looks fragile."

Cedric snatched the bar of soap from Viktor's hand.

"We are _not_ together," he said, feigning exasperation.

Cedric continued soaping Viktor's shoulders and arms before massaging his neck and back. He snaked a lathered hand between Viktor's arse cheeks, making Viktor jump.

"Careful," he warned, "if we go again, yoo will be thee one to get fucked."

Cedric's free hand slowly reached around to grasp Viktor's cock, already growing hard from his touch.

"Is that a threat, Viktor Krum," he asked. "Or a promise?"

Viktor Krum smirked, licentiously. Yes, he loved a great many things about Hogwarts.

Fucking Cedric Diggory was top on that list.


	9. Chapter 9

**

* * *

GOBLET OF TREACHERY: Smutty Entr'acte – II****

* * *

Extra Notes:** This is an extra scene – an intermission from the regular story arc – and features pure, unadulterated smut. If you are considered a minor in your region DO NOT READ! The regular story arc will proceed next week!

**Special Pairing:** Fleur/Roger Davies

**Timeline: **This interlude takes place sometime between Chapters 5 & 6

* * *

You want to know the secret to getting loads of twat? 

Confidence.

Birds love confidence. They love it like they'd love a chocolate-covered dildo. And I have it in spades. How else do you think I could score so much quality trim being who I am? After all, I'm not the smartest one at Hogwarts, nor am I the fittest. Don't get me wrong, I'm hardly a minger. Compared to the likes of Dean Thomas or Blaise Zabini, or even Cedric and the Weasley Twins, however. . . Well, I'm man enough to admit my standing on the totem pole of _shaggability_. But what I lack in physical attributes, I more than make up for in poise. My sheer boldness has gotten me laid when I should have been slapped more times than not. Godric knows the reason why I went after Cedric, arguably the fittest lad in school since Oliver Wood, was to prove that I could, that he would want me. And he does. . . _badly_.

So, when the students of Beauxbatons arrived at Hogwarts and I laid eyes on Fleur Delacour for the first time, I simply had to have her. When I found out she was part Veela, I _knew_ I would have her.

Oh, she put on a good show for her classmates, let me tell you. See spurned my advances, stuck her cute, button nose in the air when I made my way to her, and 'hrmmf'ed when I asked to sit by her in the Great Hall. But, eventually, the sheer audacity – the unmitigated _nerve_ -- by which I approached her again and again finally broke her down. She caved.

They _always_ cave.

Soon, she was coming to me to initiate conversations and ask favours. And, I put on quite the show. I fumbled for words, stuttering like an idiot. I'd miss my mouth when eating food, especially broth (she loved having proof of my adoration in the form of soup-stains down the front of my shirt). I'd trip over myself when we were walking. I even managed to make my palms sweaty when we held hands. She thought she had me. . .

If she only knew the truth.

"Roger, would you kindly show me 'ze way to 'ze Owlery, please?" '

I'm sitting the Hufflepuff common room when I hear her voice behind me, speaking those wonderful words. I smile and set my book in my school bag.

"Oh, ah. . . of course," I answer as I put on my best 'bumbling act'.

I stand, making sure to bump my shins on the table, spilling over my cup of pumpkin juice. She giggles. Point one for the day.

"It's rather far," I advise, "And it's rather parky outside. Let me run up and get an extra cloak for you. "

I dash up the steps and pass Ernie Macmillan, who looks at me with something akin to awe as he shakes his head and whispers, "You lucky bastard. " I return with a thick, wool cloak that I know will be slightly too short for her. After all, who'd want to cover those legs. They go all the way up to her neck, for Merlin's sake!

Arms intertwined, we walk outside, chatting about nonsensical things that I could care little about. She talked about her home in the French countryside and I feigned interest.

"Oh, it all sounds brilliant," I offer as sheepishly as I can. "I'd love to visit there, sometime. "

I'm lying, of course; I hate France, except the toms. Parisian whores will fuck anyone with enough francs, even a thirteen-year old boy. Fleur reminds me of my first, some renter name Barbette (at least, that's the name she gave me). I start to wonder if she'll taste like Barbette, too.

We walk up the cobble stone path that leads to the Owlery Tower. This is a recent addition to Hogwarts, made from the abandoned watchtower that was apparently used during ancient times, or something like that. I never really pay attention in Professor Binns' class. I let her walk in front of me, taking great pleasure in watching her legs, studying them as they move. They're graceful, as if they were dancing and not simply walking. I can see the pink, flowered panties underneath the high-cut school skirt that all the Beauxbatons girls wear. As cold as it is outside, I find myself getting increasingly warm.

"Oh, no," she says when we finally make it to the owl cages. "I do not 'ave an owl of my own. "

She begins to pout, her eyes reminiscent of a hurt puppy.

"No fear," I reply. "You can use mine. I don't mind. "

"Are you sure?" she asks, leaning in as if her proximity would guarantee my acquiescence. "I do not want to be any bother. "

I answer with a slight bow, "No bother at all, m'lady. "

I click my tongue. Within seconds, my Verreaux's Eagle Owl flies to me, landing on my outstretched arm. With its striking appearance and vast wingspan, Verreaux Eagle Owls are impressive, especially to girls. I hear Fleur squeal in delight as it spreads its wings and flaps, ready for its mission.

"Très magnifique!" she cries, clapping her hands together. "C'est si beau!"

"Thank you," I manage, with a bow. "Mercurcio is still young, still growing. But he'll get your letter to its destination probably quicker than anyone else's. "

As I walk over to Fleur, Mercurcio extends one of his legs, ready to receive her post. She ties her letter gently, yet firmly, to the limb. I walk over to one of the arched windows and whisper in his ear, "Now be a good boy and get this letter to its recipient as fast as you can. No mouse-hunting until you get back. " I scold him with a wag of the finger. He nips it playfully, as if he'll pay no mind to my wishes. Even so, I know he'll make me proud.

He jaunts from my arm and soars into the sky. A second later from that, Fleur grabs my shoulder, spins me around, presses my back against the wall, and proceeds to latch on to my mouth.

Of course, I act coy.

"Fleur!" I cry, gently pushing her away. I make sure to maintain hold of her shoulders, keeping within arm's reach.

She grabs my wrists, forcibly removing them and holding them above my head. Merlin's beard, is she strong! Her grip is vice-like; I wouldn't be surprised to find bruises there when we're done.

Fleur leans closer, whispering in my ear, "What 'eez 'ze mattah, Roger? Do you not like me? Do you not want me?"

Her voice is hypnotic, husky. Her breath is intoxicating. Whatever Veela charms she's thrown out before, it hardly compares to the pheromones seeping from her now. My eyes roll in the back of my head. For a moment, I forget where we are, who I am.

Her lips press against my earlobe and down my neck as a tongue tickles my Adam's apple. My breathing becomes quick as she begins to squat in front of me. Against my better judgement (because what bloke wouldn't want a blowjob?), I hook my arms under hers and lift her up, spinning around and pressing her against the wall. I attack her throat with my mouth which sends her into a tittering fit.

"What are you doing, Roger?" she asks between gasps and giggles.

I pull back and look deep into her eyes.

"I'm giving you something you richly deserve. "

I squat down in front of her and stick my head under her skirt.

I pause. I'm here. I'm really here. Nestled somewhere between the legs of the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, certainly the most beautiful girl I deserve. I take a moment to take it all in, brushing my face against the crotch and inhaling deeply.

I smell the pungent sweetness of her pussy and can feel her bush through her undergarments. I kiss her inner thigh and feel her tense. I plant a trail of kisses along her inside of her left leg and mouth at her twat, tugging at her panties and her pubes with my teeth. I hear her suck air through her teeth as I let go of the cloth, proceeding to make my way along the inside of her right leg.

"S'il te plait, Roger," she begs, "do not tease me!"

I bloody love it when they beg.

I reach up and slowly pull off her panties. She lifts one of her legs and throws it over my shoulder. I continue to taunt her by licking designs on the skin of her inner thigh with my tongue. I'm sure she can't tell, but I spell out 'Roger Davies was here' as I'm doing this. I know no one can ever see it, but it gives me some satisfaction. I lick the crease where her leg joins with her crotch, nuzzling my face into her bush. She arches into me as I blow and lap at her slit. I grab a handful of her arse, pulling her closer to me. My tongue separates her lips. As her lips open up, I run my tongue along the layers of the flesh within, flicking at the folds, feeling her pussy as it becomes wetter.

She's moaning now, grabbing at the back of my head, forcing my face to go deeper in her. I stick my tongue as far as it will go. I make circles, wiggling it, frantically trying to find her clit. I start to hum, low and guttural, sending waves of vibrations deep inside her. She starts grinding her hips into me.

I know I've hit that 'spot' when she starts screaming in French, pounding one fist against the wall and pawning at my head with the other, grabbing a fistful of skirt and hair in the meantime. I begin to fuck her with my tongue, going in and out as fast as I would with my cock, which remains hard and unattended, dripping with its own precum. Her legs go from trembling to jerking to convulsing in a matter of seconds. I can feel hot wetness dance along my tongue and drip onto my chin before sliding down my neck. Her jerks become less intense, though she continues to hold my head firmly in place. Like a good boy, I lap at her pussy, flicking and swishing like my tongue was a wand and her orgasm, my spell.

Her grip eases and she slowly lifts her leg and stands on her own two feet. I make sure to put her panties back on before giving her sweet bush one final nuzzle and pulling myself out from under her skirt. She has this thoroughly pleased expression drawn on her face. I inch closer to kiss her. She jerks away.

"Oh, no! Not until you wash up!"

I grab her shoulders and force my tongue into her mouth. 'It's her pussy,' I think, 'she needs to know how sweet it tastes. ' She resists at first before succumbing to her own flavour, just as I had. Our tongues circle each other as if fighting for dominance.

I pull back.

She smiles at me before gently pushing me away. Making her way to the Owlery exit, she stops short of the door and turns to face me.

"Thanks again for letting me use your Mercurcio," she says. "And for. . . 'ze orgasm. Cedric Diggory is a lucky man. "

She's gone before she can see the shocked look on my face. I knew how much I really liked Cedric, but I had no clue that others could see it, too. Still, part one of my conquest is done. Although I've this raging hard-on and no one to satisfy it (for the moment), I'm still immensely chuffed.

I wonder… Would she will go to the Yule Ball with me? Now, that would be something!

Yes, gentlemen; confidence is how you get a bird.

Eating pussy well is how you keep them.

Oh, and in case you're wondering. . .

. . . Fluer definitely does _not_ taste like Barbette.


	10. Chapter 10

**Previously on Goblet of Treachery:**

"_...Harry Potter..."_

Harry Potter's name came out of the Goblet of Fire, making him the fourth champion – and second for Hogwarts.

"_Gentlemen, lady. May I introduce – incredible as it may seem – our fourth champion."_

"_Oh, a very funny joke, Monsieur Bagman."_

_"Joke? No, not at all. Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire."_

Dumbledore, in a wise move, gave Harry the choice of competing.

"_Knowing the risks, Harry, what do you want to do? Do you want to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament?"_

Rita Skeeter tells revealing things about Cedric Diggory.

"_Well, Cedric. How does it feel to be chosen as a champion?"_

_"I... I feel honoured, of course."_

_"Oh, of course! Especially considering the Diggory name isn't exactly synonymous with ... glory, right dear? I bet it is rough trying to live up to your father's expectations... I'm sure he's counting on you... considering he's all-but squandered the money left your mother by her parents, yeah?"_

And Cedric put two-and-two together...

"_Listen to me, Someone put your name in that Goblet because they obviously want to hurt you. You must be careful. Promise me you'll look out for yourself"_

Peter Pettigrew, Gryffindor traitor and henchman to the Dark Lord, conjured a demon to do a special task...

"_You are to acquire Le Grimoire de Selene from the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic, London, Britain. You are to do so unseen and undetected..."_

"_To hear is to obey."_

Harry found himself overtly concerned with a jealous Colin Creevey...

"_Colin, are you going to fuckin' talk to me?"_

_"What?"_

_"What do you mean, 'what'? You know perfectly well 'what'. Everything was fine until I came back from fetching Cedric. Now, you won't even look at me, let alone talk."_

_"Whatever—"_

_"If I wanted this kind of attitude, I could have hung out with Malfoy."_

Former Death Eaters Lucius Malfoy and Theodore Nott plan a life without their dreaded master...

"_Think about it, Lucius. The time has come for us to aspire to greater things other than following madmen to their doom. The Dark Lord lost his battle... and he lost it to a one-year old boy. Is that who you want to swear your allegiance to?"_

Peter Pettigrew offers to make a pact with Lucius

"_I want to make a deal with you Lucius Malfoy."_

_"A deal?" _

"_A world without The Dark Lord."_

Harry overhears a surprising spat between Roger Davies and Cedric...

"_I bet you're going to ask her to the Yule Ball, aren't you?"_

_"Oh, did you really expect me to take you, Cedric?"_

_"Maybe I was."_

... and gets a lesson in patience from Cedric, who reveals more than his sexual identity.

"_You heard it all, yeah?" _

"_Yeah."_

_"That's… not the way I wanted to come out to you... Are you seeing someone, Harry?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Really? Shame that I waited too long then, yeah?" _

**And now back to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Treachery: Chapter 8.**

**8.**

_HP, _

_Don't forget you promised to meet me in the Darkroom after classes today. The password's 'dragon heart'._

_Looking forward to it._

_CC_

**§**

"Oi! Harry!"

Sitting in one of the more comfortable chairs in the common room, I manage to cover Colin's letter just as Fred and George kneel down on each side of me.

"Reading by the firelight—" George says.

"In the broad daylight—" Fred continues.

"Bit granny that, innit?" George finishes.

And trust me, their 'twin-act' is as disorienting as it can be annoying.

"Do you lot ever—"

"Not hiding anything from us are you?" Fred asked with a sly grin.

"What are you on about?" I ask, rather defensively.

"Considering the sacrifice—"

"We made for you—"

"Last year."

"Speaking of which—"

"Where is the…" George leans in close, but it's Fred who's voice whispers its conclusion in my other ear.

"Marauder's Map?"

"Who wants to know?" I ask, barely able to hide my suspicion.

"We just need to borrow it a bit," Fred answers, channelling as much innocence as he can.

"For purely academic reasons, of course."

"Of course," I say with a raised eyebrow.

"You'll have it back by tonight, we swear," George promises, and this time, I can tell he's sincere.

"Up to no good, I bet," I answer with a smile. "Go on, then, it's in my chest by my bed."

"Thanks, Harry," they reply in tandem as they scurry off towards the dormitories.

By the time Ron, Hermione and I are in the Great Hall for breakfast, my nerves are completely shot. Ron wasn't making it better by fretting about today's class schedule.

"Och! Double Divination," he says, gloomily as he hunched over his porridge. "That woman will be the death of me, just you wait."

Hermione peeks over her copy of _The Daily Prophet, _arching an eyebrow.

"Well, at least you'll have plenty notice."

"That woman couldn't predict what comes after the number four," Ron says with a scowl.

Hermione sets down her paper and reaches for some toast.

"You should have dropped it like I did."

"What? And take Arithmancy, instead? No fear!"

There's a rustling above as a hundred owls come soaring through the arched windows of the Great Hall. I sit on the edge of my seat hoping to see Hedwig's snow-white nap intermingled with the others. There are plenty of tawny owls and a right few red _Mountain Scops_, but nothing resembling Hedwig's snow-white plumage.

My disappointment must be obvious as Hermione reaches over and rests her hand on my whispering, "Don't worry, Harry. I'm sure he's alright."

I muster enough resolve to give her a smile. The only thing the least bit comforting is my rendezvous before dinner. Without thinking, I look at Colin's letter and my smile widens.

"'Ooz dat frmm?" Ron mutters with a mouthful of porridge.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Hermione chastises. "Chew before you speak, please!"

Ron shrugs it off and swallows. "Go on, then?"

"This…? Oh, it's ahhh…"

I'm trying to think of something, some lie to tell them. Or, maybe now's the time? They are my best mates, after all. Wouldn't they be okay with it? I've the feeling Hermione would. Ronald? He's always calling Percy a 'pouf' and they're related by blood. What hope have I? I have no clue how he'd take it. If it's anything like how he handles everything else it'll be 'curse first, talk later'. Contrary to popular belief, he has a mean hex arm.

"I… I told Colin I'd meet him in the dark room. He took some wizard pictures and he's gonna show me how they ah… develop."

"Wotcha' want to know that for?" he asks.

By this point, I'm stammering for something to say. Thankfully, Ron and Hermione's attentions are diverted by the haughty cackling of Pansy Parkinson at the Slytherin table.

"Oh, Draco!" she exclaims, far louder than necessary. "They're absolutely delightful!"

I look to see Draco opening a box of what appears to be sweets – obviously sent by his mother.

"Yes," he drawls, lazily, his lips pursed. "Mother knows the makers of La Maison du Chocolat personally. They make the finest wizard chocolates in France."

Hermione rolls her eyes and returns to reading her paper even as Pansy claps her hands together, loudly.

"Oh, Draco! They are absolutely divine! Look at the detail in the wrapping!" she says, holding up a piece of candy, enfolded in shiny, metallic paper that began to change colour.

"No two are the same," Draco announces with pride as though he made them himself.

"Sodding ponce," Ron mutters.

For once, I'm happy that Malfoy made such a grand show; the topic of me and Colin and what we were going to be doing later was forgotten.

**§**

At their very best, Mad-Eye Moody's Defence Against the Dark Arts classes are educational and helpful. In fact, with the exception of Professor Lupin last year, I've never learned so much about identifying dark magic, and defending myself from them. I found that I could resist the _Imperius Curse_ – the spell used to take over another wizard's mind – almost as easily as one could cast it. But at its worst, Moody's teachings were frightening. Physical appearance aside, the things he teaches us are beyond upsetting and the stories Moody tells us break my heart.

Fortunately for my sanity, I have moments when nothing can bring me down, like when I pass Colin the halls between classes. He manages to brush up me in passing. No one notices, not Ron or Hermione. Even when I turn to watch him disappear around a corner, it escapes their attention. Long after the touch, I can feel his heat, still white-hot as if he branded me. Maybe that's exactly what he did?

Cedric, however, is a different story. When he sees me walking in his direction, he makes a disserted effort to look the other way or discreetly position himself behind one of his friends, blocking my view. It's been like this all day, in fact. I can't imagine what I've done to make him want to avoid me and I find myself hurt – not angry – by his behaviour. Hermione's momentary lapse in attentiveness with Colin seems to have faded as we pass Cedric.

"What's got his wand in a knot?" she asks, leaning closer as we walk towards to dungeons.

"Dunno," I answer, happy that Ron seems oblivious to our conversation.

"He's been acting… peculiar around you, lately."

"Really?" I feign ignorance.

"Yeah, ever since the 'wand weighing'. You don't think he's upset that your name came out of the Goblet, do you?"

"Yeah," I lie. "I bet that's it."

But I know it isn't, not really. I know he was worried that someone was going to use the Tournament to try and hurt me. And he's probably upset that I caught him and Roger Davies in their lovers' spat. Certainly that can't be it, though. He knows about me and Colin. He knows that I don't judge him, that I _wouldn't_ judge him. Then why the cold brush-off in the hallways every time he sees me? It's enough to drive me insane, the way he behaves!

My sour mood lasts well into Potions.

**§**

The only thing that keeps me going this afternoon is the knowledge of my impending… rendezvous with Colin. Although I'm truly interested in seeing how our photo turned out (I've never been in a wizard's photo before), I am even more interested in attaching myself firmly to his lips, again.

I can't believe that kissing could be that wonderful! And I certainly didn't think that it would leave me feeling like I can do anything: stave off dragons, pass Potions, make Ron and Hermione not argue during our 'study sessions', you name it! He makes me believe that I can be a better person; he makes me _want_ to be a better person. I can hardly describe how it makes me feel. It's like a hunger, one so embedded in me that I can hardly remember a time when I _didn't _want to kiss him.

I excuse myself from a torturous game of Wizards' Chess, where Ron was giving me a sound thrashing (as usual), and head to the third-floor east wing of the Castle. This is where most of the upper-class Ravenclaw courses are taught but it also houses Colin's darkroom. I can barely contain myself, I'm so jubilant. I even start to whistle some nameless tune as I walk.

Lost in my thoughts, I'm taken by surprise when I pass the boys loo and find myself being accosted by Crabbe and Goyle. I'm thrown bodily into the lav and find Draco Malfoy sitting atop one of the sinks, his wand swinging between his fingers like a baton.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, hopping to his feet and walking towards me.

I struggle to free myself but Malfoy's goons have me firmly in place.

"Malfoy," I say with as much derision as I can muster, "to what do I owe this… pleasure?"

He answers me with a punch to the stomach that sends me breathless to my knees.

"Crabbe. Goyle. Potter and I have something to discuss… in private."

Crabbe and Goyle seem confused by Malfoy's statement – not that confusing them is much of a feat, mind you.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Malfoy scoffs, nudging at me with his foot. "I have everything under control."

Crabbe and Goyle lift me to my feet and release me, but not before one of them delivers another blow to my side. I double over, landing hard on my knees and coughing blood. I hear the door close behind me.

"If I ever get you alone, Malfoy..." I warn as I start to straighten up, holding my side.

He grabs the collar of my shirt and pushes me forcibly against the wall opposite the door. The expression on his face is one of pure anger, his sneer more feral than I've ever seen on him before. I admit… he has me a little scared. He holds me against the wall, his hands still fisted against the front of my shirt.

His face is dangerously close to mine and his voice is low when he threatens, "You need to leave Colin be."

It takes a moment for this to register.

"That's rich," I reply. "I was just about to say the same to you."

He pushes me against the wall, again; the 'thud' of my impact rings in my ears. When my eyes re-open, I'm seeing little flashes of light. The bloody prat may have given me a concussion!

"I mean it, Potter," he snarls. "Leave Colin alone."

"Why, Draco," I retort with a leer. "Aren't _we_ being awfully protective of the Mudblood."

The use of his favourite slur has exactly the effect that I wanted. He seems conflicted, as if I'm reminding him of something he was trying desperately to forget. And then it hits me! Why would Malfoy need his cohorts to leave the lav just to 'talk' to me about Colin? My eyes widen in realisation even as Draco's narrow.

"Oh!" I gasp. "Now, I get it. You fancy him, don't you? This is rich! Not _only_ are you a pouf, but you're grabbing ankles for a Mudbloo—!"

Another slam against the wall.

"Shut up!" he hisses.

Then, his furrowed brow softens as a he delivers a half-smile. "I'm doing quite more than just 'fancying' him, Potter, believe you me."

It's my turn to get upset.

"You're a lying git, Malfoy!"

"Oh, really?" he says, with that self-satisfying smirk that gets under my skin and festers like a cancer. "We'll just see about that, Potter. But I'm warning you – and I'm saying this only once more…"

He leans in closer until his nose is almost touching mine. I can feel his breath, moist and warm, on my face.

"Leave… Colin… Alone."

I'm hoping he can't hear – or feel – my heart beating faster. No matter how he'd interpret it, I would never hear the end of it. 'I had Potter shaking in his skin' or 'Oh, Potter wants to be buggered by a Malfoy'. Either one would be the limit!

"Since when do you care about us 'lowly Gryffindors', Malfoy?"

"I don't," he says. He releases me and brushes imaginary dirt off his robes. His face returns to its more blasé pretence and he starts to back away, never once dropping eye contact. "I care about my _property_."

**§**

Property.

The word haunts me and I find that I keep trying to talk myself into disbelieving what Malfoy said. Colin would never… I can't even finish that thought. The very notion of kissing Malfoy is disgusting. Certainly Colin has better taste than that? If he fancies Malfoy, what does that say about me? Are he and I so similar? My mind races back to what the Sorting Hat told me my first year, 'You'd do well in Slytherin.' I shake the memory away, shunting it deep into the dark corners of my brain – I'm fairly good at that, after all.

Leaning over the sink, I splash water on my face in an effort to wash away the memory Malfoy's warning. I have to close my eyes and take deep breaths to calm down. When I exit the loo, I'm half-expecting to have to defend myself from the Gruesome Twosome, and I doubt I have the strength to lift my wand, let alone fight.

I walk up the stairs to the third floor, making my way to Colin's darkroom. The door farthest down the corridor has a sign on it that reads 'knock before opening door'. There are a dozen reasons why I should just quit while I'm ahead and make my way back to the Gryffindor Tower. I tell myself that I don't care about Malfoy said in the loo, but I know that's not true. Already I'm steeling myself for a confrontation, pressing my forehead against the door, letting its cool surface sooth the growing migraine. I take a deep breath; it's now or never. I have questions, questions that _will_ be answered. I whisper the password 'dragon heart', rap on the door, and wait for the door to open.

**°**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note-  
**This chapter is rating Hard-R for sexual situations and language. Please heed your region's laws regarding age and ratings. The author of this fanfic, as well as Rowling, Scholastic, WB, and any other entity owning the **_Harry Potter_** trademark are not responsible for minors reading adult material they shouldn't be.**  
**

**9.**  
The first thing I notice after Colin pulls me into his darkroom is the eerie, pale blue light filling the room, washing the colour from everything. The next thing grabbing my attention is the putrid smell of vinegar that attacks my nostrils, making me want to gag. There's a faint hint of citrus, as if Colin has tried to mask the smell with something far too sweet. However, the assault on my senses is quickly replaced by something more pleasant, namely Colin pouncing on me, throwing his arms around my neck, and delivering sloppy, frantic kisses. He catches me off-guard and his weight sends me falling back into one of the shelves along the wall. Colin doesn't seem to care that the vials wobble precariously, some tipping over completely and pouring their contents on the floor.

He runs his fingers through my hair as his tongue darts in my mouth, forcing my lips apart. I've little opportunity to protest; crikey, I can barely catch my breath! It's not unpleasant, mind you. Far from it! It was just a little... much. I lose my bearings when he whimpers in my mouth and my breath hitches when his cold hands snake up my shirt, fingers deftly pinching my nipples. I vaguely remember being upset about something. Surely not, though – how could I be angry with someone who can do _that _with his tongue?

Finally, I manage to pull myself away, holding Colin at bay by his shoulders. I'm practically panting like I just ran twenty laps around the Quidditch pitch. Even still, his hands are all over me, groping at my bits and pieces. He chews his bottom lip, leering at me in that special way that could very well be some new _Imperio_ curse that he's perfected – I can barely resist it.

"Whoa, Colin! Let me catch my breath, please."

"I've been thinking about you all day," he says, his normally large saucer-like eyes narrowed. His hands have moved down to the belt of my trousers, a smile wide on his face.

"Wait... wh-what...?" I know if we don't slow down, things will quickly escalate into something I'm not quite ready for, just yet. I grab his hands, holding them firmly in place, away from my crotch. Colin almost looks... wounded.

"What's wrong, Harry?" he asks, surprisingly innocent considering his _mister-grabby-hands_ act.

"Nothing. I just... I'm..."

You cannot imagine how mortifyingthis is. We're both fourteen and, although I can't help but still see him as a scampering first-year, Colin seems so... _experienced? _Is that possible? Am I _that_ behind everyone else? It's times like these that being marked by a psychopath bent on killing me is truly a spanner in the works. Colin shouldn't have been my first kiss, should he? Shouldn't I have shagged by now?

As if he can see the virginity seeping from every pore on my face, Colin stops squirming, his eyes widen with realization. "Oh, Merlin, Harry – I'm so sorry. I ... I didn't know..."

Oh, great. Now he feels sorry for me. I drop his hands and straighten up, not wanting to meet his gaze. Even though I would like nothing more than to leave, I take the moment to survey our surroundings. Photographs of varied sizes hang from a line that travels the length of the darkroom, held in place with large, old-fashioned clothespins and suspended over two large, floor-standing basins. I manage to walk around Colin and peer into the basin, where other photographs soak in the foul-smelling liquid. Images on the immersed photos fade-in to view, revealing more detail: shots of his brother, Dennis, and his friends; of Fleur and some of her fellow Beauxbatons when they were unaware; of Viktor flying high over the Quidditch pitch. That's when I realize I haven't flown since this past summer at The Burrow, something I desperately need to remedy.

Colin sidles up beside me, reaching for one of the hanging photographs.

"Here's the one we took this morning," he says, holding it in front of me.

I watch the photograph of Colin sitting on my lap, placing his hands on the side of my face and drawing closer. It sends chills down my spine, remembering how his gaze made me feel. Although I remember it lasting seemingly forever, after a couple of seconds, the image of me and Colin pull back, only to repeat itself in a never-ending loop. Even my flattened, two-dimensional image is coloured with edginess, peppering the arousal that I feel with embarrassment. 'Brilliant, Potter!' I think, 'Now my stupidity is captured for everyone to see – forever.' How can I be such a twat? How can Colin even like me? My desire to scarper off grows exponentially.

"I love that photo," Colin whispers, leaning into me as he speaks. I welcome how close he is.

"Yeah," I say, too nervous to tear my eyes from the picture.

After a moment of silence, Colin re-hangs the Wizard's Photo of us. "I don't mind, you know," he says. He turns his back on the pendent pictures and leans against the table holding the basins.

"What are you on about?" I ask with a tinge of discomfort, hoping he doesn't pick up on it.

"That you're a virgin." His matter-of-factness is both discerning and disarming. I like that I don't have to put on an act, but I don't want to seem... weak, undesirable.

"It's right bit cute, actually."

"Oh, wonderful," I say, petulantly. "That's exactly what I wanted to be... 'cute'."

"Don't be that way, Harry." He rolls his eyes, pushing himself from the table. "You know what I meant."

"Why's the light in here pale blue?" I ask, feigning interest in something I know he'll get easily distracted with. "I thought dark room lights had to be red or summat?" I remember seeing a show on the telly that involved a photographer. His dark room was always lit red.

Colin walks up to my side, and I feel his hand on the small of my back tracing small circles. The front of my trousers becomes rather uncomfortably tight.

"Muggle photos require the red light," he explains. "But _Wizard Photos_ need the blue light. It's also why they are black-and-white. I'd like to find a way to make coloured ones, but..."

"You're pants at Potions?" I ask, finishing his sentence.

Nodding, he smiles and repeats, "I'm pants at Potions. Snape _hates _me." When he rests his head on my shoulder, I'm taking aback by how comfortable it seems, this physical closeness.

"Snape hates everyone, or, at least, every Gryffindor. Tell me how you did this," I say, pointing at another photo, this one of Viktor Krum pulling a Wronski Feint on the Quidditch pitch (he likes to practice flying when his classes are finished).

"You didn't really come here for me to show you how to make Muggle photos, didja, Harry?" Colin asks, silkily. "Because that's not why I asked you to come."

"Oh?" I try to be nonchalant with my response, but the crack in my voice – now almost an octave higher than normal – gives off a much different emotion. "Why did you ask me to come, then?"

He grabs my shoulders and gently turns me to face him. "To show you something…"

Colin presses me gently against the wall, his lips on mine. My heart rate quickens; I have a strange feeling where this is leading. His hands move to hold the sides of my face. Colin tilts my head to the side enough to give him better access to my collarbone, where he gently licks before gently sucking on the skin. His tongue traces up my neck, then along my jaw line, delivering a kiss on my chin before continuing on the other side. He begins to breathe deeply, exhaling in my ear. My knees buckle when I feel his hardness push into mine, throbbing and flexing under his trousers. Colin's hands make their way to the collar of my white, Oxford shirt. He loosens my tie and begins slowly unbuttoning my shirt.

"Colin, I…"

"Shhh," he admonishes, softly. "I know you've never… Don't think less of me because I have, yeah?"

"I… What? No, never."

My words are mere pants of breath. I don't want him to stop, even though I'm nervous. What if I'm bad? What if I make a mistake? What if I … smell? He pulls my shirt out of my trousers, allowing his hands to trail up my sides and chest. His hands are cold; he can feel the goose bumps on my skin. Despite all this, he never drops eye contact.

Colin bits his bottom lip. "I've wanted to do this for a long time, Harry. Do you mind if I…?"

Honestly, at this point, I'd probably do anything, or let him do anything to me. His hands travel down to my belt buckle as he rests his head on my shoulder. When he squats down in front of me, all I can think about is whether or not I've taken a shower today and how long ago it was and whether or not I've been sweating a lot. I close my eyes and hiss through gritted teeth, wincing as I feel a cold hand wrap around my cock. He begins to stroke me; long, slow strokes that make me feel far better than when I'm tossing myself off.

I gasp when I feel something moist and hot wrap itself around the tip of my cock, tugging gently on my foreskin. Colin's tongue laps at my piss slit and I shudder. My hips begin to move even though my hands still rest at my side, clenching and unclenching, repeatedly. A moan escapes me when he takes my entire length, his throat muscles tightening as my dick tickles his gag reflexes. Cold hands squeeze my arse as he pulls me deeper, getting used to my girth.

There's nothing I can compare this with, no other experience I've had up until this point in my life that even comes close to what I'm feeling as he swirls his tongue around the head. When he grips the base of my cock and starts pumping in a rhythm that matches the bobbing of his head, my eyes roll into the back of my skull My mouth has been open – voiceless – since his warm mouth first wrapped around me with only little grunts and whimpers escaping. Colin takes my hands and rests them on the sides of his head as he continues sucking me off. I grab a handful of hair, careful not to push my hips too far into him, despite the fact that I want – I need – to be as deep in him as possible.

Colin pulls back, letting my dick slide out; I instantly miss the warmth. He continues to stroke me, though, twisting on the up-stroke. He laps at my balls and makes circular movements with his tongue before taking one of my sacs in his mouth. He pumps his fist faster, harder.

"Colin…"

He understands my breathy warning. I start to tense, feeling the familiar stiffness ebb from the pit of my stomach down to my legs; my toes curl under. Tightening my grip on Colin's hair, my knees start to buckle again as he once again takes my full length into his mouth. I arch into him and come down his throat. I jerk and shudder, but he never lets me pull out. He stops stroking but continues to suck me off, even when some semen dribbles down his chin.

I can't seem to open my eyes or wipe what's sure to be a silly grin off my face. I feel Colin pulling my smalls and trousers up, tucking my sensitive cock in my underwear and fastening the buckle of my belt. When I open my eyes, he's wiping cum from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. He smiles angelically at me as he draws me closer.

We kiss and I can taste the combination of musk and a slightly pungent tang that reminds me of Laundry Day at the Dursley's. It's not wholly unpleasant, just… different.

"That… that was amazing," I manage to say as we embrace.

He blushes, and it's one of the most glorious sights I've ever witnessed. "I love it when you say my name," he whispers, as if he's expecting me to laugh at him.

We stay in place, holding each other, and I still can't wipe the smile from my face. My first blowjob. My first blowjob and it was brilliant! My eyes travel the length of the table, admiring the basin with the artistic works within them. I take small pride in the fact that these wonderful pictures, still floating in the water, came from the same boy who can make me so happy.

From the corner of my eye, I see something reflect the blue light of the lamp back at me. I pull away, reaching for the side of the sink. In a bunched napkin lays three pieces of candy with a familiar metallic-gold wrapping full of detail and changing colour even as I reach for them.

'_Mother knows the makers of La Maison du Chocolat personally…'_

"_Oh, Draco! They are absolutely divine! Look at the detail in the wrapping!"_

"_No two are the same…"_

"Where… where did you get the candy?" I ask, trying to steady my voice.

"Oh, uhm… a friend. You know…? No, I think it was one of Dennis' friends. You remember…? Nigel."

I can tell Colin's getting nervous. I spin around to face him and he flinches; the expression on my face must be murderous.

"You're lying to me!"

Colin backs away, his eyes wide. My breathing is deep and laboured. I'm grinding my teeth even as my hands clench into his fists.

"No, Harry… I'm not…"

"You fucking liar!" I bark, shoving Colin into the wall. "You _are_ sleeping with Malfoy, aren't you?"

"I…"

"Aren't you?" I grab his shoulders, giving him one sharp, violent shake. I'm trembling with anger and I can feel myself blacking out as if going into auto-pilot. My grip tightens, my fingers digging hard into his shoulders. "I can't believe you'd sleep with that… that… filth! He _hates_ your lot, you know? 'Filthy Mudbloods'…! That's what he calls your kind!"

'_Your kind.'_ It doesn't escape me how easy it is to separate 'them' from 'me' when I'm this furious. I can tell by how Colin winces that he notices it, too. No wonder he fancied me. I'm just a brown-haired, four-eyed version of Malfoy.

'_You'd do well in Slytherin.'_

I have to get out of this room, away from Colin, before I do something I know I'll regret. His eyes are pleading, but they just make me angrier. I push him away with more force than was necessary. I reach for the doorknob, wrench the door open, and run out of the darkroom and towards the Gryffindor towers. I can vaguely hear him call after me, apologising, begging to let him explain. But there is no explanation, there is no excuse. He's been buggered by a Malfoy! He's let that racist shite… do things, things that he was willing to let _me_ do! Oh, God! I've let him kiss me with those same fucking lips that have probably sucked off that ruddy ferret! Colin was _my_ boyfriend – Mine! Malfoy had no right to take him! NONE!

So many thoughts swim though my head as I bomb down the stairs, taking two or three at a time. All I want to do is make it to my dormitory and the comfort of my bed and never come out again! I turn the corner only to bump into Cedric Diggory, knocking him to the ground. Of all the times to finally see Cedric where he can't run away or hide behind a mate, this is probably the most unfortunate.

"What the—!" His scowl fades once he looks up and sees me. "Harry? You… you're crying."

Am I? I hadn't noticed. I was so angry and hurt that I hardly had time enough to register that I was crying. Cedric wastes no time jumping to his feet. He reaches out to me as he moves closer, his eyes a soft grey.

"Are you okay?" he asks with a tone that is soothing and warm.

Without realising what I'm doing, I grab Cedric and pull him into a hug, burying my face into his shoulder. He hesitates before wrapping his arms around me. His kisses the top of my head and I begin to cry harder.

"What the fuck is this, then?" I hear from behind me.

Cedric pushes me away, yet keeps his grip firm on my shoulders. I don't even turn to see who it was, I already know.

"Roger!" Cedric calls. "It's … it's not what you think."

The anger in me boils as Cedric and Roger begin shouting at each other. That's when I really become aware: they all have someone. I'm second fiddle to everyone! Colin has Malfoy, Cedric has Roger. What the fuck is the use, then? Who do I have? Oh, yes. I forget – I have Lord Voldemort!

"Get off me!" I snarl, jerking away from Cedric. "You lot disgust me! All of you!"

I don't even wait to see Cedric's reaction. I start running again, running down the corridor to the main stairwell. I can hear Cedric call after me, but it just makes me go faster, fuelling the hurt. Everyone I love leaves me, my parents, Sirius, and now Cedric and Colin! Am I so vile? Am I so unlovable, so disgusting? Am I so easy to spurn? Fine, then! Sod them all! If that's how they wish to be, I'll do my best to give them _all_ something to hate!

**Next Chapter ** Charlie and his Dragons


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note-  
**This chapter is rating R for violence. Please heed your region's laws regarding age and ratings. The author of this fanfic, as well as Rowling, Scholastic, WB, and any other entity owning the **_Harry Potter_** trademark are not responsible for minors reading adult material they shouldn't be.**  
**

**10.**  
On the uninhabited island of Staffa, _Fingal's Cave_ derives its name from the legendary third century Scots/Irish king, Fingal (Fionn mac Cumhail). The sea cave is similar to the _Giant's Causeway_ in Northern Ireland; both are formed entirely from hexagonally-jointed basalt. Surprisingly, the caves are rather inviting. Its play of colour is magnificent, combining tints of warm red, brown, and maroon. Seaweeds and lichens paint the cave green and gold while the lime that filtered through has crusted the pillars with pure, snowy white.

The floor of the cave isn't visible through the green of the sea. Columns rising on either side add a regularity so perfect it looks made more by the hand of man rather than a work of Nature. The whisper of the sea won the cave a Gaelic nickname meaning "the Cave of Music". Muggle Speleologists attribute the eerie sounds to the echoes of waves that reverberate within Fingal's Cave's cathedral-like caverns. But Sirius Black knows it to be old magic – powerful magic that resided in the depths of the caves long before man began to walk upright.

He lay on a large slab of soft rock, his hands behind his head. Buckbeak stood knee-deep in the water, peering down in the hopes of finding wayward salmon. Occasionally, he'd click his neb before fully submerging his head, shaking it heartily. Sirius watched the beast, more out of habit than interest. At least the animal had stopped chasing the seals and sea birds that tend to haunt the cave. _That_ was truly annoying. Hedwig sat upon a column of stone, impatiently, yet obediently. She wanted to fly back to her owner, with or without a return letter. She'd hoot and flap her wings, restlessly. Sirius turned away from Buckbeak's attempts at procuring a meal to deliver the snowy owl a decisive scowl.

"I told you, Hedwig," he called out, exasperatingly, "it's too dangerous to send you back just yet."

A twelve-year stretch at Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit did little to stave off his paranoia, but the letters written by his godson worried him to no end. Parchments and copies of The Daily Prophet were strewn about, smudged with the dirt from Sirius' fingers. He needn't read Harry's posts anymore, they were already memorized – at least, all of the important bits were.

_ Dear Sirius,  
... A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don't reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he?_

And the follow-up letter hardly made matters any better with talk of dreams where Voldemort murdered a Muggle caretaker. Harry's mother was Muggleborn. Sirius understood enough about the genetics of magic to know that sometimes a family of Muggles, on their way to producing their first fully-magical child, would often produce offspring who, while not wizards or witches, were gifted with 'the sight' – psychic, for lack of a better word. Did Lily have vatic dreams? Sirius racked his brain trying to remember if he ever heard Prongs or Moony mention it. Did she pass on the psychic trait to her son, then? Were these just the dreams of a scared fourteen-year-old boy, or something far more prophetic?

But it was Harry's most recent correspondence almost set Sirius over the edge with worry.

_ I bet you've heard by now that my name came out of the Goblet of Fire for the Tri-Wizard Tournament. You can relax though, I'm not competing._

Yes, he had read about the scandal of the 'Fourth Champion' after nicking a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ on his most recent excursion to Hogsmead as Padfoot. It was part of the reason he decided to hide out closer to Hogwarts in the Scotland caves. Certainly, the innate magic of his temporary home would serve to soothe his still-frazzled nerves and clear the chaotic thoughts his mind. However, it was its proximity to Harry that ultimately made the small cluster of caves an ideal temporary home for Sirius. Competing or no, Harry's name coming out of that Goblet was no accident. Someone was trying to kill the boy... again.

Sitting up with a start, Sirius took quill to parchment (the back of one of Harry's letters), and wrote:

_ Harry -  
I can't say everything I would like to in this letter, it's too risky in case the owl is intercepted - we need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o'clock in the morning on the 22nd of November? I know better than anyone that you can look after yourself. While you're around Dumbledore and Moody, I don't think anyone will be able to hurt you. However, someone seems to be having a good try. Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of November as quickly as you can._

_Sirius_

He stared at his writing for a moment, wanting to make sure it conveyed the urgency needed without sounding too cryptic; he didn't want to scare the lad to death. As he rolled up the parchment, Hedwig's yellow eyes seemed to glow; she was eager to spread her wings and take flight. She had been in that cave far too long. Sirius extended his arm and made a clicking noise with his tongue. Hedwig flew to the outstretched limb, landing gingerly with one leg held up so to accept the post.

"Now you be careful, Hedwig," he said, pointing at her sternly. "Make sure Harry receives this letter. Do your best not to be intercepted."

Hedwig clicked her beak derisively, taking offence at being admonished so. Within moments, the owl had disappeared into the sky beyond Sirius' view.

§

Harry burst through the Gryffindor common room, tears falling from puffy, red eyes. Without so much as looking at his friends, he ran to the dormitory and into the fourth-years' sleeping quarters. Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan abandoned their game of Exploding Snap, following Harry, with Neville and Dean hot on their heels.

Opening the door to their bedrooms, Ron was struck by how silent the room was, considering Harry's hysterics. When he tried to pull back the drapes to Harry's four-poster, he found that they were locked.

"Harry? What's wrong?" Ron asked, his voice soft yet coloured with concern.

"Come on, mate," Seamus added. "You can tell us."

Ron pressed his ear against the canopy, straining to hear something – anything. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean draw his wand.

"It's warded," Dean said. "I can try a _Finite_—"

But before he could finish the sentence, Seamus reached over and pulled Dean's arm down. "No," he said. "Best t'let him be. He wants his privacy. He'll be down for supper soon. We should go."

Seamus and Dean walked out of the room, leaving a worried Neville and Ron behind.

"Harry, it's me – Ron," Ron said, feeling a slight pang at being 'locked out' of Harry's bed with the others. They were, after all, best friends. Ron thought that Harry would confide in him anything and everything that mattered. Yet, here he stood on the other side of the canopied divan with Neville Longbottom. Selfish though it was, he couldn't help but be offended – and hurt. Ron turned and walked away, stopping at the door as if he was going to say something else. Instead, he simply took a deep breath and left the bedroom, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Lost in his thoughts as he walked down the stairs leading to the common room, Ron almost collided with Colin Creevey.

"Oh, sorry there, Colin. I wasn't watching where I was…" Ron stopped at the sight of the third-year: saucer-like eyes bloodshot, lips puffy and red, and hair dishevelled. Colin's cheeks were stained with thin streams of dried tears along his flushed cheeks. "Are you… are you okay?"

"Is… is Harry in his room?" Colin asked between shuddered breaths. He looked around Ron, as if hoping to find Harry standing behind him.

"Yeah, he's… he's in bed," Ron answered.

Colin made to walk past the redhead when Ron reached out and held him at bay.

"He's warded his bed, Colin -- a Silencing Charm and a Locking Charm. We've tried to bypass it, but we couldn't." Ron knew this to be a lie, of course, but he had this feeling deep in his stomach that Colin was the last person Harry wanted to see.

"Do you know why Harry's upset?" Ron asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Colin fidgeted, refusing to make eye contact. "I… think it best he told you."

"I think it best you tell me. Right now."

Even as he said the words, his grip on Colin's shoulders tightened.

"Ow!" Colin cried. "You're hurting me!"

"What did you do to Harry?" Ron barked, shaking the younger lad.

"It's none of your business! Let go of me!"

"I'm making it my business!"

"Let go of my brother!" cried a squeaky voice from down the stairwell.

Dennis, the younger Creevey brother, managed to make his way around Colin with fierce determination in his eyes. Suddenly, Ron felt the sharp kick of little feet at his shins. His grip loosened. Colin shrugged Ron's hands away.

"Don't you _ever_ do that again!" Colin screamed as he fled up the stairs to the third-years' flooring. Dennis quickly followed, but not before delivering a stomping blow to Ron's toes for good measure.

"Brute!" he yelled before running after his brother.

Ron hopped on one foot, clutching at the other. He wanted to go after Colin and force him to tell him everything he knew about why Harry was upset. But he already knew why Harry was distressed. Harry was heart-broken and it was Colin's fault.

§

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

"Oh, bless you Marauders, for this wonderful gift."

"George, can you imagine our lives without The Map?"

"It'd have been a right bit more difficult, I'd imagine."

"Do you see them?"

"Not yet, Lee."

"Oi! There she is!"

"Lee, quiet it down or we'll be forced to gag you."

"Which one is it?"

"Angelina. And she's heading up to the seventh floor."

"D'you think she's going to The Room?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure she is, Lee."

"How do we even know it's a room?"

"What else could it be, George?"

"And there's Katie. Notice how she follows from a … safe distance, eh?"

"Who'd a'thought those two, eh?"

"Oh, trust me, Fred… I've thought about it many a'night. Toss in a side of Hannah Abbott..."

"Too right, Lee. Too right."

"Now, if we only knew how to get in The Room…"

"Who's that there?"

"Who?"

"_That_. The one walking towards Headmaster Dumbledore's office?"

"… 'Peter Pettigrew'…"

"That name sounds familiar…"

"Is he that fat, lump-of-a-boy…? Slytherin? Second-year?"

"Hrmm… Dunno."

"Don't care, either. Look! Angelina and Katie have 'disappeared' from the Map. That means –"

"That they are in… _The Room!_"

"Oh, to be a fly on that wall…"

"Or a spider on the ceiling…"

"Or the knickers under their robes…"

"Ha! Good one, Lee."

"Thanks, Fred."

"Okay. So, new mission: How to get in The Room...?"

§

It's about half past eleven when I wake up. My stomach and back are sore from crying and my eyes still feel swollen. I remind myself to apologise to Ron later, I really didn't mean to shut him out, but I just couldn't bear to tell him everything, not if it meant losing him. I don't know what I'd do if I lost Ron, too.

I'm tired beyond belief, even after my long 'nap', and all I really want to do is go back to sleep and forget about this day, Colin, and Cedric. I thought nothing could compare to the night Professor Dumbledore took away the _Mirror of Erised_ or the night I was told Sirius had betrayed my parents, leading to their murder. Today may not have been as bad as that, but it's pretty close. In spite of everything that's happened, however, I am quite chuffed to see Charlie. Admittedly, the thought doesn't leave me feeling butterflies as it had before. I haven't seen him since the summer at The Burrow, yet the memory of our time together is as fresh as the day it happened. It's easy to talk to Charlie. With the others, there's always… something. I'm always worried of scaring Ron to death with some of the things I'd like to talk about – my fears, my hopes, my dreams. With the twins, well… I really don't talk to them. I'd much rather listen, even with their disorienting 'twin-act'. Percy? Well, all he wants to do is give me advice and it's more of the 'bookish' sort, really. Not quite my bag. I've never really talked to Bill, the oldest Weasley brother, but I imagine it'd be proper.

Charlie, however, is another story altogether. Not only did he recall great stories about his Hogwarts Quidditch days (including some amusing tales about Oliver Wood's first year on the team) but he gave me pointers about what it takes to be a Quidditch team captain, even offering to put in a good word with Professor McGonagall for me. But most of all, he listened. He listened to me talk about things that I couldn't talk about with Ron: liking girls, liking boys, missing Sirius even though I just met him and barely knew him. We talked about family, love, and what it meant to be alone. Charlie held back on the latter point; I couldn't help feeling there was something he wasn't telling me. His eyes would get glossy when mentioning Oliver Wood, which lead me to wonder about my former Quidditch captain. But I didn't press the matter.

I shake myself from my memory upon realising the time: quarter of midnight. I'm expected to meet Charlie in fifteen minutes! I draw my wand from my pocket and whisper, "_Finite Incantatem_," and I feel the wards dissolve to nothingness. Pulling back the curtains of my four-poster, I survey the room. I can hear the individual sounds of all five of my dorm mates sleeping as distinctively as if they were talking to me. Quietly opening the chest that contains most of my clothes and personal belongings, I dig deep past the holed socks and tattered jeans until I find my Invisibility Cloak, bundled around some Oxford shirts. Throwing it over myself, I creep downstairs through the empty common room and make my way to the main entrance.

The grounds are very dark, except the lights from Hagrid's hut and the nearby Beauxbaton carriage.

I continue east around the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest until I start seeing a golden glow grow brighter. Once I've gone so far that the castle and lake are completely obscured by the ominous trees, I see that the 'glow' is from a series of bonfires, set up within an encampment. I walk around a thicket of trees where I can get a better view of the campsite.

Small huts surround the perimeter of the bivouac, men darting around the fires, some casting spells at the dimmer ones to make the flares soar to the sky. I continue to walk towards the campsite, my eyes scouring the scene in the hopes of spotting Charlie. Instead, I see two large figures and can hear the boom, bark-of-a-laugh that I recognize instantly as belonging to Hagrid. I see him standing arm-in-arm with Madame Maxime, staring longingly at three mounds of… something in the centre of the camp. Occasionally, I hear what sounds like air escaping from under the Hogwarts train, but far deeper and resonating. Intrigued, I walk closer.

"Is'n' it beautiful?" Hagrid says.

"Oh, yes," Madame Maxime agrees. "Zey are lovely."

A small man stands on the other side of Hagrid. Actually, he may not be small, but anyone standing next to the Gamekeeper would certainly look quite little in comparison.

"Wan' a closer look?" Hagrid asks Madame Maxime.

"Oh, oui!" she replies, looking as though it was her birthday and Christmas at the same time.

Finally, the man beside them speaks. "Don't get too close, Hagrid. They can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know. I've seen this Horntail do forty!"

I recognise the voice instantly: Charlie.

"Oh, we won' be botherin' them none, believe me," Hagrid says, leading Madame Maxime deeper into the camp and closer to the bonfires.

"Oh, and I've counted the eggs, Hagrid," Charlie calls after him. "So no funny business!"

Charlie remains where he is as Hagrid and Madame Maxime disappear amidst the flourish of activity and the shadows cast by the fires. He seems at a loss; I bet he's waiting for me.

"Psssst!" I hiss.

Charlie doesn't move.

"Pssst! Hey!"

Charlie looks to the left.

"Charlie! Over here!" I whisper as loud as I can.

He looks the other way, but still doesn't turn around.

"No! Behind you!"

Finally, he turns around. I pop my head from under the cloak, giving him quite the fright.

"Great Odin's Beard!" Charlie exclaims, almost falling backwards. His eyes bulge out at the sight of me. I forget he doesn't know I've an Invisibility Cloak. All he sees is my bodiless head floating about.

"It's me!" I can't help but laugh at his expression. It's priceless!

"My god! Don't ever do that to me again," Charlie admonishes, walking towards me with his hand over his heart, as if to steady it. "Uhm, Harry… Where's the rest of you?"

"Oh, yeah, right." I whip off the Invisibility Cloak and my full body comes into view.

"You never told me you had one of those," Charlie says.

As he gets closer, I suddenly find that I can't look him straight in his blue eyes; I've always felt like he could read my thoughts. His face is wider than Ron's and Percy's and even the twins, even though he's built more like Fred and George. The shortest of the Weasley brothers, he's also the stockiest. An occasional breeze whips by, pulling his shirt tight on his body, revealing muscles that I hardly knew could exist on a boy.

"Yeah, well… Wouldn't want the whole world to know, would I?"

"No, I suppose not," he replies, looking around nervously.

"So, what's going on here?" I ask, not wanting to give Charlie the chance to say something like 'oh, I've changed my mind – go back to the castle' or 'Hagrid's here, better scurry off'. I've been rejected twice today, I could hardly stand another.

"Oh, well… the First Task."

I try and wrap my brain around that. "But… you're… you're a… dragon tamer. So, that would mean that the First Task is…"

"Yep," he says with a smile.

"Bloody hell! Dragons!"

"Three different breeds, even. Follow me, we'll get closer so you can see them. But," he adds, waging a finger at me, "you must promise that you won't tell anyone. Not Ginny, not Hermione, not the twins, and certainly not 'Mr. Mouth' Ron."

"I… I promise."

"Come on, then. We won't get too close." He moves to wrap an arm around me. In that instant, I remember the nightmare I had of him ripping my skin and burning me. My muscles instinctively tense as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and leads me closer to the three 'mounds' – which must be the dragons. He smells of burnt wood and dirt, not altogether bad. In short order, the unwarranted 'fear' I just felt melts away; the weight of his arm draped over me is… comforting.

We stop at a well-lit area, where the shadows of the bonfire no longer obscure our vision, and that's when I see them. Three large, scaly dragons lie asleep next to each other, chained at the neck and the leg and a large clamp around their waist. I hear the loud 'train whistle' sound and realise that it's one of the dragons breathing when I see steam shoot out of its snout.

"My… god."

That's all I can say, really. These beasts are magnificent, beautiful, yet terrifying. Even in their sleep, they radiate power – the likes of which I've never seen before, even in Lord Voldemort! I snap my mouth shut after realising that I've been gaping at the sleeping creatures since they came into view.

"Beautiful, yeah?" Charlie asks, his arm still draped over my shoulder.

"Yeah." My answer is little more than a whisper. I doubt he even heard me.

One of the dragons' head lifts up as it reaches out with one of its clawed paws. Its enormous jaws open to reveal a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. Talons on its hand separate and stretch. A deafening roar-like sound fills the base. The other wizards stop what they are doing and stare warily at the dragon. I find myself leaning into Charlie more and his grip on my shoulder tightens. I'm scared the beast is awake – and hungry – and am fully prepare to take my leave. However, the dragon simply snaps his mouth closed, repositions itself, and resumes with its droning, slightly-hypnotic snoring.

"Was that… was that a…"

"A yawn?" Charlie finishes for me. "Yeah."

"If that's a yawn, I'd hate to hear a roar," I say.

Charlie laughs. "Yeah, a fully-grown Horntail could shatter the windows of Hogwarts Castle with the full brunt of its call, especially if in heat. They've been surprisingly docile since we got here, though. We were expecting to have to keep them heavily sedated with potions and sleep spells. But…"

"What kinds are they?"

Charlie points to the one that 'yawned'. "That one is the Hungarian Horntail. They are vicious bastards. And possessive. On more than one occasion, a nesting mother thought a dragon rider was one of her children. Couldn't get the poor bloke for weeks. And dragons feed their children much like ordinary birds do. So, you can imagine what he had to do for food."

I shudder at that thought.

Charlie points to the dragon with long, pointed horns. "You see the silvery-blue one?"

I nod.

"That's the Swedish Short-Snout. And the red one with spikes around its face…? That's the Chinese Fireball."

"Wicked."

"Let's go over here," Charlie says, leading me to a small embankment of stones. He sits down and pats the seat next to him. His smile is disarming, pleasant and warm; I can't help but blush.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you and all," Charlie says, looking at the sleeping dragons. "But, what are you doing here? Professor Dumbledore would kill if he found out – not to mention my mum."

"I… I got your letter," I reply. "The one that said to meet you here at midnight."

Charlie turns to look at me, his lips pursed to the side in confusion.

"Letter," he says. "What letter?"

"You know? _'Come to the field just behind Hagrid's hut, east of The Forbidden Forest. Come at midnight when everyone's asleep. Make sure no one knows.'_ The one you sent a couple days ago."

A serious expression takes hold of Charlie's face; I don't much like it. There's concern there and not a little disbelief.

"Harry… I didn't send any letter."

"What? But that's—"

"I didn't even tell Ron, Fred or George I was coming. Speaking of which, are you sure it wasn't just a prank from the twins?"

It takes me a moment to process this. Suddenly, we hear wizards shouting. From behind us, other dragon tamers run towards the bed of sleeping dragons.

"Come on, Charlie," one shouts back to us. "Agnes' awake!"

Charlie hops to his feet but doesn't run towards the commotion. "It's the Chinese Fireball." He kneels down in front of me, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Harry, listen to me. I didn't send you a letter but I need you to take that letter to Professor Dumbledore. Be quick about it. Put on your Invisibility Cloak and go right now."

"Okay." I stand up, looking around Charlie. I can see the ridge-nosed, red dragon looking around. It seems… disoriented, but I realise I'm not the best person to make judgements considering I've never seen an 'oriented' dragon. Suddenly, it whips its head towards the Forbidden Forest and stares. It huffs a jet of billowy smoke through its nostrils and I swear its eyes glowing. Is that natural, I wonder?

Just as I begin to make my way back to the castle, I see a bolt of red energy flare from the woods, striking the chains of the Chinese Fireball. The fuss of the wizards intensifies as it becomes obvious that one of the dragon's legs is free to move about. A second blast from the forest shatters the restraints on the torso and a third shatters one of the front leg restraints.

"Where's those blasts coming from?" I hear one of the dragon tamers shout.

Confusion and chaos is heightened when the dragon attempts to stand. Its movements no longer fully constricted, it growls and snarls as it lurches upwards, trying to break the other chains that still bind it. This, of course, wakes up the other sleeping dragons, who starts snapping and roaring along with Agnes. Energy flares from wands as the tamers attempt to stun the beasts. The spells bounce of their hard shells in blazes of coloured sparks.

"It's no use!" one of the wizards screams.

Charlie runs back towards me, shooing me away with his arms. "Go, Harry – Now!"

Without a second glance, I make to run.

"Charlie – look out!" I hear from behind.

I turn to find the Chinese Fireball within feet of us.

"It's attacking Charlie!"

"Everyone – Stunning Spells on two!"

"One – two!"

I hear the blasting of spells, but the creature hardly notices. Its beady, eerie eyes are fixed on us – on Charlie.

"Watch out!" Charlie cries, pushing me away just in time as a tail landing heavily on the spot where we stood. The impact shakes the very ground and echoes around us. Charlie is quick to get to his feet, shooting jinx after jinx at the advancing dragon. I, however, am the exact opposite. I'm frozen in place, unable to tear my eyes away from the beast, yet unable to get up and run.

"Harry – run! Go!" Charlie calls back, still firing off hexes.

He's unable to dodge the next attack, the dragon's tail whipping around and connecting with the redhead, tossing him aside like a rag doll. Charlie lands bodily against a large stone.

"Get up," I whisper. "Get up."

But Charlie doesn't get up. He lies there motionless, still.

Slowly my head turns to face the dragon, its gaze still locked on me. That's when I realize the beast wasn't after Charlie – it was after me.

"Young man," I hear a wizard shout to me. "Crouch down! Crouch down!"

He yells something in Latin as I roll over on my stomach, ball up as tightly as I can, and wait. My knees are tucked under my chin and my arms cover the back of my head. The ground quakes with every step the dragon takes towards me. Time seems to slow to an excruciating crawl as I lay there in some semblance of a foetal position. I fully expect a horned tail to come crashing down on me. Instead, the dragon raises up, its chest swelling. I can hear a slow, long intake of air and even that is deafening, like how I'd imagine a jet to sound. Finally, there's a roar above me and the frantic 'whooshing' of fire. Even with my eyes closed, everything seems bright. I see the flash of light and feel the heat before I see – and feel – nothing.


	13. Chapter 13

**11. **

The oak door opened into the candle-lit, circular room. Echoes of snoring from the sleeping portraits were drowned out by a song-like choler that was both beautiful and deadly. Headmaster Dumbledore seemed to float as he walked past one of the many spindle-legged tables of silver gadgets that whizzed, spun, and hummed noisily. If he took notice of the windows with their curtains drawn, he made no reaction to them. Settled on its golden perch, Fawkes appeared agitated, flapping its majestic wings; it continued to sing.

Dumbledore reached out with a crooked finger and ran it along the phoenix's beak, letting the creature nip at it. Fawkes reached out with its leg as its song grew in power and intensity, grabbing Dumbledore's sleeve in its talons.

"There, there, Fawkes," Dumbledore said, smoothing back the phoenix's feathers along its head and neck. "No need to fear. It is only Peter Pettigrew. I am quite safe."

As if speaking to the room, Dumbledore called out, "Come on, Peter. Neither Fawkes nor **I **will harm you… at least until we know why you are here."

From the far wall, light shimmered and bent. The image of the window and curtains twisted as if being looked at through an unfocused lens. Peter Pettigrew seemed to walk out of the coruscation like it were a door, an expression akin to pain colouring his features.

"Make it stop!" he cried out through gritted teeth and closed eyes, his hands covering his ears. "Please!"

At this request, Fawkes' song grew louder, until Peter cowered before the Headmaster, writhing in pain.

"The song of a phoenix," Dumbledore said, "can soothe the fear of the noble hearted or strike pain into the very souls of the wicked. I can only assume you mean to do me harm if the phoenixsong has this affect on you."

Peter understood Dumbledore's statement for what it was. His eyes widened. The fear was palpable, ebbing from him like blood from an open wound.

"No!" he cried. "I come in peace! I swear by it!"

"You swore an oath to two people I cared very much for, Peter," Dumbledore said, dangerously. "Your asseverations mean nothing – less than nothing."

His face contorted with pain, Peter looked up, tears threatening to flow from his eyes. Blood seeped from his ears, escaping through fingers. "I mean to make right by Harry, Headmaster! Please! You must believe me!" His knees buckled under him. As the pain grew too much to bear, he fell onto all fours: coughing and hacking, gasping for air.

"Why should I, Peter? I believed you once… to great folly."

It was only then did Dumbledore's resolve fade. His eyes strayed from Peter's tormented form and stared off into nothingness.

"I owe him a life-debt!" Peter managed to bellow between pants, his scream almost overpowering Fawkes' vengeful trills.

Suddenly, the room became quiet, as though someone had cast a _Silencing Charm_. Chest heaving and out of breath, Peter reluctantly removed his hands from his ears and stared at his blood-soaked fingers.

"Harry stopped Sirius and Remus from killing you, did he?"

Peter nodded.

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling with pride.

"I must say," Dumbledore began as he walked around his desk and sat in his high-backed chair, "that I'm quite impressed that you managed to hide right here in Hogwarts under my very nose for seven years."

Peter made to stand. "Eight," he corrected without as much as a thought to the inappropriateness of it.

Dumbledore merely arched an eyebrow, fingertips touching. "Indeed. Eight. Please, Peter, sit."

With a wave of the hand, a chair materialised behind Peter and slid into him. Bowled over, he fell into the seat, his hands gripping the end of the armrests. As he did so, leather straps wrapped around his wrists.

"What manner of –!"

Before he could finish the sentence, a metal clamp snapped around his neck, pulling his spine flush against the back of the chair. Peter coughed, blood flying from his lips.

"I hope that isn't … _too_ tight for you, Peter?" Dumbledore asked with mock concern.

"You… are little better… than the Dark Lord," Peter leered.

"If you're simply going to attempt to insult me, Peter," Dumbledore said, his voice low and perilous, "then I might as well call for Minister Fudge and have you sent to Azkaban for the 'kiss'." He leaned back into his seat, his eyes unblinking and far from kind. "Or, maybe I'll leave you to Fawkes?"

"No!" Peter's voice cracked with panic. "I swear to you, Headmaster – I am here to do right by Harry."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"I know where the Dark Lord is. Even as we speak he is left unguarded, save by his snake, Nagini. He feeds from her to keep strong, yet he still grows weaker by the day. I was charged with finding a spell to restore him."

"And did you?"

"Yes, several, in fact." Peter squirmed in his seat, attempting to find some position that was more comfortable. With every move, however, his restraints tightened their hold on him.

"I suggest you talk more and move less," Dumbledore warned. "Those bands shall only get more restrictive the more you struggle against them."

"Please… I – I found several spells that can bring someone back from near-death. _Le Grimoire de Selene._"

The Headmaster sat upright in his seat, his eyes narrowed. "You have the Grimoire, Peter?"

"Y-yes."

"My, my. You _are_ quite the resourceful one. Shame you weren't on our side."

As if by cue, the fetters grew tighter, cutting off Peter's supply of air.

"P-please, Headm-master. I have… information… you can… use. Spell… will make… Dark Lord… weaker… not stronger… horcruxes… I know…"

"What did you say?"

"H-horcruxes… I … know… wh-where…"

Dumbledore stood abruptly, waving his hand. The metal clamp vanished and the leather straps loosened. Peter threw himself to the floor, gasping for air and clutching at his throat.

"You know about his horcrux?"

"H-horcrux_es_… plural…" Peter said through coughs and choked wheezes. He pulled himself to his feet but refused to sit back on the chair. "If… I couldn't find a… restorative spell… I was instructed to find one of his horcruxes…"

"How many does he have?"

"Five… I think. I know Lucius has one…"

"Had one," Dumbledore corrected. "Harry destroyed it two years ago."

Without giving Peter time to process this new bit of information, Dumbledore continued, "Do you know where these… horcruxes are?"

"I… know where three – er, two of them are. But once you have –cough– one, there's a simple spell to find the others."

"I've tried that, Peter. Tom Riddle's journal provided no such information."

"You must do it when it's active. If Harry had already destroyed it—"

Again, Dumbledore's eyes wandered from Peter. "Of course. Harry already destroyed it when he gave it to me. The soul was already gone..."

"I can't stay long, Headmaster. The Dark Lord expects me back soon."

"Why should I trust you, Peter? Especially after what you've done to James and Lilly, and Sirius?"

Peter began nervously wringing his hands, unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes. "The Dark Lord…" He faltered, unable to find the right words. "The Dark Lord will not stop with Muggles or Muggleborns. He will not end his reign of terror when the world is washed clean of the Unworthy. Instead, he'll continue until there is naught left but him. I thought… I never thought that he would – that he could…"

With a blank expression on his face, Peter's voice trailed off. After a beat, he shook the thoughts from his head and regained composure. "There's something you should know about one of your professors here, Headmaster."

Dumbledore's eyes quirked at this. "Oh, really? And what, pray tell, is that?"

However, before Peter could continue, their attentions were diverted to the window facing the Quidditch Pitch, where they could hear the unmistakeable sound of dragons roaring and spells being fired. Dumbledore stood, grabbed a monocular from his desk, and ran to the window. Flinging it open, he leaned over the window sill, pulling the telescope to its full length and peered through it.

Peter heard the door opening from behind. Instinctively, he transformed into a rat and scurried under Dumbledore's desk. Professor McGonagall swept into the room, her face frantic.

"Albus! Albus, oh thank Merlin you're here."

Dumbledore turned to face the professor. "What is it, Minerva? What's going on?"

"It's the dragon keepers," she said, her eyes brimming with tears. "Charlie Weasley's been hurt and I'm afraid… I'm…"

"Go on, Minerva."

"It's Harry, Albus… Harry was attacked by one of the dragons… he may not make it through the night!"

With those words, a deafening screeched filled the room as Fawkes stretched its wings to their full, impressive length. Even as the phoenix flew past Dumbledore and out through the window, the Headmaster left the room in long strides, Professor McGonagall hot on his heels, forgetting all about Peter Pettigrew and his offering.

Peter remained behind, cursing in his rodent mind. He had meant to get to Barty Crouch Jr before he could do anything rash, before he could attack Harry. His only hope now was that the boy's legendary luck would hold out. The rat skittered across the floor towards the far wall by the entrance, squeezing through the same crack that gave him entrance to the Headmaster's office. He knew who the young upstart was impersonating and where his office would be; Peter, himself had been in that office many times as a Hogwarts student. It was time, he thought, he paid young Bartimus a little visit.

**§**

Colin was only dimly aware of his surroundings; he stopped paying attention long ago. There were vague recollections of climbing in a four-poster where Dennis was waiting for him and resting his head in his brother's lap. There were others around as well, friends such as Nigel and Ethan and girls he hadn't really met. His lungs burned from crying as he clutched at the eiderdown on the bed. Dennis tried desperately to sooth Colin's anguish.

"Don't cry," he heard his brother's weak, trembling voice beg. "Please, don't cry. Everything will be fine – everything will be okay. We'll..." He swallowed hard, trying to push the lump down his throat. "We'll go to Honeydukes on the weekend. We'll get some Carmichael's Caustic Caramels. You love them, don't you, Colin?"

"Yeah, Colin," Ethan interjected, finally taking a seat beside them. "And we'll take some pictures and run about Diagon Alley and—"

"I've ruined it all," Colin managed to say, his voice a pale shadow of its normal self. "I've ruined everything."

"Oh, you poor thing," one of the girls whispered, bringing her hand up to her mouth.

Clasping hard against his brother, Dennis brought Colin up to his chest and began rocking back and forth as the others watched on, unable to think of any comforting words. All Dennis could do was whisper his shushes in his brother's ear and hope that things would be better, soon. Wrapped as they were in their cyclic connexion of hurt and comfort, they were oblivious to the thunderous boom of dragon roars emanating from outside the castle and the scurrying of fellow classmates to the windows as they tried to see exactly what was making the monstrous noises. From what seemed to be deep in the Forbidden Forrest, they heard a boy scream...

**§**

Riding a shabby, school-issued broom, Professor Mad-Eye Moony flew into his office through an opened window, a pleased smirk across his mangled face. Moody made his way to his desk, where stood a large, glass spinning top. Before pulling the chair out, he gazed down at large trunk with seven keyholes under the window. It jumped and lurched, hopping as if something inside was trying desperately to get out. Moody smiled. His eyes darted over to the mirror against the far wall, which didn't display any images, including his own reflection. Apparently satisfied, Moody made to sit.

"You are quite the idiot," a voice rang out from behind.

Moody swung around to face the intruder, but saw no one. Wand at the ready, he moved away from the desk, knees bent slightly. "Who's there?"

"I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance, Barty."

The voice came from behind him again. Moody swung around to face the open window. Standing before him was Peter Pettigrew, a scowl drawn on his features. Without missing a beat, Moody raised his wand arm and yelled "Stupefy". A ray of red energy flared from his wand tip. It struck Peter, yet passed harmlessly through him. Then, Peter fizzled away, like an image fading from view.

"What--! An illusion!" Moody cried.

"_Angustavi!"_

A bolt of energy struck Moody from behind, lifting him bodily off the floor and pinning him against the wall, his head turned to the side. Even as he struggled to free himself, the binds tightened until breathing became a chore. Moreover, he felt his very will being sapped from him. Within seconds, Moody scarcely wanted to fight, but he was still quite angry.

"I'll take that, if you please," Peter said from behind, plucking the wand from Moody's hand. There was a syrupy timbre to his voice, a sing-song quality that taunted the captive.

"I... thought... you were... dead," Moody said through gritted teeth.

"Better men than you thought much the same." Peter playfully tapped Moody on his forehead and stepped up on his tip-toes to whisper, "Yet, here I am. And in the service of the Dark Lord, I might add. I've been taking care of him, you see?"

"You lie," Moody wheezed. "He... would... never... you _betrayed_... him..."

"Oh, and I suppose you are doing him a service, then?"

"I was... killing... the one boy..."

"—the one boy who could restore the Dark Lord, bringing him back to full power. Yes, I know."

Moody's eyes widen either in shock or in righteous fury. "No! I—!"

Peter pushed away from the wall and took a seat at Moody's desk. He spun around in the chair, letting his head loll around. Abruptly, he stopped as if he remembered something.

"Do you know I have the Grimoire? Selene's?" Moody tried to choke out a response. "Oh, don't bother to answer. The more you move – the more you think – the quicker it saps your essence. You'll be a pile of dust before I can gloat over my sheer and utter brilliance."

Moody, unable to muster the strength to struggle, stopped moving.

"It's a fascinating read, you know? The Grimoire, that is." Peter continued with his almost maniacal spinning. "Did you know there are sixty-seven Restoration spells in the Grimoire, each one darker than the last? I'm sure you did." He stuck out his leg, stopping himself again. "But no matter how dark the spell, it always requires the same major ingredient. Do you know what that is?"

Moody coughed an unintelligible reply, his eyes slowly blinking. Peter stood up and walked back to his side, brandishing a large sword-like blade that curved and widened at the tip. Glowing with an eerie hue, the parang emanated a faint, crystalline hum as if it were slicing through the very air around them.

"Sacrifice," Peter said, running a finger along the flat-end of the cutting edge. The corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile. "The spell I'm going to present to our master requires three sacrifices: blood from a servant, an innocent, and an enemy."

Peter let out a small laugh. "Well, Sirius Black is undoubtedly on his way to Hogwarts as we speak. He's not heard back from Harry regarding any posts that he's sent the lad. Of course, I am to blame for that; I've intercepted them all. Sirius takes care of 'the enemy'. As for 'an innocent'...? Meh. Anyone will do, really. I'll simply grab some first-year when the time comes. No matter."

"You... will not... get... 'way... w'it... only...I..."

A surprised expression crept on Peter's face. "Oh, yes. I forget. Only _you_ are serving the Dark Lord these days, yeah?"

"Y-yes..."

"Only _you_ are providing Him with subjection befitting his favour?"

"... yes ..."

Peter's leaned closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Of the both of us, there is but _one_ servant to the Dark Lord?"

"... yes ..."

"And _you_ are he?"

"Yes!"

"I'll be sure to tell the Dark Lord of your fealty."

In one swift motion, Peter grabbed a handful of Moody's thin hair, jerked his head back to reveal a ragged throat, and reached around to slice his throat. Blood sprayed along the wall as Moody jolted and shuddered; his fingers clawing at the wall, his legs kicking around, yet still restrained by Peter's mystic bands. After what seemed an eternity, Moody's spasms ceased. No longer detecting life, the magical restraints dissipated, dropping its lifeless captive to the floor. Peter stared at the husk lying at odd angles on the ground. He kicked at it. Satisfied that Moody was truly dead, Peter lifted the bloody blade, closed his eyes, and incanted a spell. Despite the attack on Harry, everything was going according to plan, his plan.


	14. Chapter 14

**12.**  
_Dr. Thaddeus Augustus Schivaldi;_

_It is with great urgency that I send this request for your services. Enclosed is my professional diagnosis on a patient of mine who has recently suffered extreme dragon burns to a great portion of his body. I have managed to heal as much of the skin as I can but the magic resonances are continuing to eat away at him. If he does not receive proper care from someone of your knowledge and expertise, I fear he may very well die within days. Considering the patient, you can understand our concern. _

_You are the pre-eminent expert in this field and are, more than likely, our only hope. Once the poisoning is repressed, he will also need serious attention on skin restoration. Compensation will not be an issue; you will be taken care of handsomely by both the estate of the patient and Hogwarts. _

_I do hope this short notice does not inconvenience you. However, when you arrive at Hogwarts, you will understand the seriousness of the matter._

_With respect,_  
_Poppy Pomfrey_  
_School Nurse, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizadry_

§

The first memory Sirius had of riding Buckbeak was a bittersweet one. Certainly, he had just been rescued from receiving "The Kiss" by Harry and Hermione, but he was also leaving with the death of two close friends unavenged and he, himself, still a wanted fugitive. But Harry was alive, healthy, and unharmed. He was growing up nicely under the watchful tutelage of Albus Dumbledore, someone Sirius believed would be able to protect him and keep him safe. That was then. Barely a few months had passed since then, and Sirius no longer felt as confident in that assertion as he once had.

Harry's owls to Sirius had grown increasingly cryptic and Sirius had grown proportionally worried. Immediately after sending an owl with a letter detailing his intent to return to Hogsmede to speak with Harry directly, Sirius received Dumbledore's letter explaining the dragon attack and his godson's condition. His own safety and well-being no longer a concern, Sirius began the journey from his hide-out at _Fingal's Cave_back to Hogwarts.

Buckbeak flew with fierce determination, as if fuelled by some mystic understanding of his passenger's urgency. Sirius had little experience with this sort of beast – do they bond on some level with their 'master'? Could Sirius even be considered its 'master'? These were all questions that would have to wait. There were only two things that mattered now: ensure that Harry was okay or, avenge his death, if it came to that. Whoever was responsible for this attack would pay dearly. On this, Sirius swore an oath.

§

The makeshift waiting room in Hogwarts infirmary was a sombre scene. Aside from the interest shown when Hermione and Ron first saw how the very structure of the medical wing seemed to respond to Madam Pomfrey's mental command, the air about the space was excruciatingly heavy. If she needed a separate – and private – room, columns of concrete would move and shift, rising from the floor or dropping down from the ceiling. It was much like watching the main stairwell in that regard. Were the circumstances different, Hermione would have probably attacked Madam Pompfrey with a barrage of questions. Instead, she was leaning forward in her chair, face in her hands. Ron sat deep in thought next to her, a hand gently massaging her back. Uncharacteristically, the twins stood in opposite corners from each other, refusing to look at anyone directly.

Their attention snapped up as Madam Pompfrey stepped over the threshold and into the room, her eyes dull and morose. Hermione stood, followed quickly by Ron.

"Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione asked.

"How... how are they?" Ron added.

Madam Pomfrey took a deep, calming breath. "Mr. Weasley is resting. He suffered several fractures to both skull and spine. I've managed to mend the bones, but the damage to his nervous system is... beyond my capabilities."

At this, Fred and George looked as though they might cast aspersions upon the school nurse. Pomfrey took off her spectacles and rubbed the bridge of her nose as she walked closer to them. When her eyes met Hermione's, the stress of the whole ordeal was evident; they were drained of life.

"Fortunately, there are neuro-Magi at St. Mungo's who have far more know-how and experience with these sorts of things. The strain of Apparating would be too much for him, so they are sending a chariot-convey to take him there."

Fred perked up at this. "Can we go with him?"

"I don't see why not," Madam Pomfrey answered with a small (albeit weak) smile. "The Headmaster will make sure you are excused from classes for the next few days."

"What about Harry?" Hermione asked with a hitch in her voice.

It hardly seemed possible, but Madam Pomfreys' face dropped lower. "Mr. Potter is in critical condition. He has third and fourth degree burns over the entirety of his back and most of his chest and face. His body is so damaged that his mind has shut down, refusing any attempts at contact, including magical means. I've stabilised him, certainly, but I am unable to do much for the actual burns."

"Then what the bloody hell good are you!"

Hermione, Fred, and George turned to face Ron, who stood with hands clenched into fists, glaring at the nurse with a ferocity unseen from him.

"Ron," Hermione called. "That's hardly fair—"

"Sod off, 'Mione," Ron interrupted. "She's the school nurse! She's supposed to be able to help Harry! She's grown bones, for Merlin's sake! Hell, she's even put students back together when they were splinched apart! But now she tells us that she can't fix Charlie's neuro-whatevers – or Harry's burns! That's rubbish!"

The subsequent silence confirmed for Madam Pompfrey that Ron's sentiment was shared by the others. She was, however, expecting such a response and her calm demeanour stayed firmly in place. Deep inside, however, she felt powerless and, as Ron had accused, useless.

"There is an old colleague of mine who specialises in epidermal recovery from extensive magical burns. I've already sent for him and he should be here within two days." Madame Pomfrey raised a hand to cut off Ron's objections. "Mr. Potter's condition is stable. Two days will not affect him either way. So long as he still has the will to live, he'll recover."

As if by cue, the door opened again. Professor Dumbledore, flanked by Colin Creevey, stepped over the threshold. Although far from his normal merry self, the headmaster maintained a slightly more cheerful poise. Colin, on the other hand, looked more dead than alive. Dark circles surrounded his puffy eyes. His hair hung low and heavy, flat and devoid of spring. He stood slightly slumped at the shoulder, biting his lip, with his arms folded tightly in front of him. Although the room was temperate, Colin seemed cold.

"What is he doing here?" Ron asked, pointing an accusatory finger at Colin.

"I... I..." Colin stammered.

Fortunately, Professor Dumbledore intervened with a comforting pat on his shoulder. "Young Mr. Creevey here is, as we all are, concerned with Harry's health. I assumed – given their relationship – that he should be here, amongst Harry's friends."

The tone in the headmaster's voice was gentle, yet firm. It left no room for debate. However, Ron took no notice of it. He stepped in front of Hermione, separated from Colin now only by Madame Pomfrey.

"Relationship? Rubbish! He doesn't _deserve_ to be here! If it wasn't for him, Harry wouldn't _be_ in this mess!"

Colin's eyes bulged, surprised by the attack, before narrowing. "I had nothing to do with this, you little slag!"

"Mr. Creevey!" Madame Pompfrey called.

"Ron, don't do this... not now." Hermione reached out to touch Ron's shoulder; he jerked it from her reach.

"No, it needs to be said. Before the attack, Harry was upset and I know it was your fault!" Ron pointed at Colin, whose eyes brimmed with guilt-laced anger. "I _know_ it was! I don't want you here! And I'm sure Harry doesn't want you here either!"

"Ronald," Professor Dumbledore said. His voice was restrained thought not quite as calm as before. This time, Ron heard the warning embedded within. Still, he couldn't be arsed for caring.

"Harry's not a pouf! And if he were, he certainly would be bending over for pervy git like you, you ruddy ponce!"

"Ronald Weasley," Professor Dumbledore's voice rang out. "That is quite enough."

This time, however, Ron acquiesced. He stormed back to his seat, jerking his arm from Fred when he tried to reach for him. Hermione glanced Colin's way and, for a second, she wanted to hug him, console him, be consoled by him. But in a flash, that need washed away and she walked with a bowed head to sit next to a glowering Ron.

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat. "The carriage to St. Mungo's will be here in moments. Professor Lupin is also on his way. I've also sent for..." he paused and looked at Hermione with a telling eye. She nodded her understanding.

George knelt beside Ron and placed a brotherly hand on his back, making small circles in an effort to comfort him. "Come on, Ron. You can go with us to St. Mungo's – just until Charlie wakes up. He'd like that... you are his favourite after all."

Whether or not the last statement was true, Ron wasn't quite sure. Nevertheless, it did little to quell his conflict. Harry was like a brother to him, and in far more critical condition than Charlie. But Charlie _was_ his brother. Ron didn't know which decision was the right one, which choice was the most appropriate. As if she understood his inner struggle, Hermione bumped shoulders with him in a subdued yet playful manner.

"Go on, Ron. There's nothing we can do for Harry until the specialist gets here, anyway. I'll stay with him."

Ron looked up at Hermione with soft eyes that struggled to hold back tears. "Are--are you sure?"

"Go on, then," she replied, giving him a final nudge.

Ron stood and, along with the twins, followed Professor Dumbledore as he exited the waiting room. Although Colin gave him a wide berth, he met Ron's angry gaze with one of his own, refusing to back down.

"I'd best prepare Mr. Weasley for the transferral," Madam Pompfrey said and before long, Colin and Hermione were alone in a room that suddenly seemed far too empty and... alone.

Understandably, Colin was unsure what to do. He hugged himself tightly as he studied his surroundings in an effort to keep himself from looking at Hermione. When their gaze finally met, he was shocked at the tenderness of them. Her deep brown eyes were warm and comforting; and her kind smile, forced as it was, was coloured with understanding. Hermione patted the seat next to her. Colin took a deep breath before joining.

§

The Hufflepuff common room was a whirlwind of nervous excitement. Like everyone else, they had heard the thunderous roar of the dragon, yet had no means of peering out of a window to investigate what had made the noise. Rumour abounded that the school was under attack from giants who had decided to take back this land – which had rightfully been theirs, at one point. Other students believed an ogre had made its way back into the school, just as one had three years prior. Even Cedric Diggory couldn't shake the feeling of fear that was gripping the common area like a starving man clinging to his last meal.

"What do you think is going on?" a wide-eyed Ernie Macmillan asked.

Cedric sat on the edge of one of the long couches, with first year Eleanor Branstone's head in his lap. "I... I don't know," he whispered, running his shaky fingers through Eleanor's hair. She had finally cried herself to sleep after frantically begging to go home. She scarcely believed that things were "okay", and it didn't help when her head of house, Professor Sprout: came in the room, demanded that everyone remain calm and not venture into the halls, and then locked the students in the common room.

For some of the Hufflepuffs, like Cedric, it was reminiscent of the 'Ogre Crisis of 1992'. Then, however, the students had only been locked in their respective houses for a few minutes. Now, it had been a couple hours and Professor Sprout still hadn't returned. As far as they were concerned, Hogwarts could have been under attack and the professors killed. It was understandable, then, that the majority of the Hufflepuffs crowded within close proximity to Cedric, who was not only a prefect, but Hogwarts Champion. He was, in most eyes, the closest thing to 'proper authority' as they could get at the moment. To his credit, Cedric masked his own fears quite well.

The murmur of the room quieted down as sleep reclaimed many of the students. Some of the more emboldened ones – namely the older students – had even made their way back to the dormitories to sleep. Suddenly, a loud 'thud' resonated through-out the room, followed by several clicks. Slumbering students awoke, jerking up in fear, unsure as to the cause of the clatter. First-years darted behind Cedric, whose own jerked movements startled Eleanor awake. She clung to Cedric's nightshirt as the door swung open. Like a chain reaction, students began screaming, one by one, until Professor Sprout peered from around the door, her hair still tightly wound around pink, spongy rollers.

A sigh of relief washed over the entire common room, resulting in several students even laughing as their adrenaline rush simmered. Even Cedric looked visibly allayed. The laughter was soon washed away by the clamouring of students, eager to learn the cause of the night's disturbance. Cedric could barely resist joining the hordes of younger students rushing to their head of house's side, practically barrelling her over with their questions.

Professor Sprout raised her hands to quell the noise. "No worries, little flowers. Everything is fine. You can all go back to bed now. There is nothing to fear."

"But, what was that noise?" Ernie asked, obviously not placated by her assurances.

"Yeah," Justin Finch-Fletchley agreed. "It sounded like a... like a dragon."

At this, the tension level rose again as student began to contemplate the implications of a dragon lose on Hogwarts grounds.

"Oh, don't be silly," Megan Jones chastised. "What would a dragon be doing here?"

This sparked even more arguments between the students. Unable to calm the noise with words, Professor Sprout finally placed two fingers strategically between her lips, and blew. The resulting noise pierced through the clamour, shocking the hysterical students silent.

"Much better," Professor Sprout said, more to herself, now that she had everyone's undivided attention. "First thing in the morning, the Headmaster will address everyone at once and explain everything. For now, just rest assured that the situation has been handled and you are all safe. Mr. Diggory, if you would follow me, please?"

Cedric felt suddenly small as the gaze of his housemates turned to him. He stood, extricating Eleanor from his lap, and walked towards Professor Sprout. This time, as the murmur of the students grew ever louder, he could not hide the fact that he was worried.

Cedric followed Professor Sprout down a corridor into her office. Despite its vastness, it had always been a warm and inviting office, cosy even if a little crowded with vines and exotic plants. The circular room was accentuated by the moonlight that shone down from the moon roof high above them. Of course, he had been in this office during the day, when the sun would provide ample light and heat, enough to keep the vegetation alive and well-nourished, but not so much as to make a person uncomfortable. At night, most of the flowers were closed, but other white, pendulous plants and leafy, shrub-like, yellow perennials were bloomed as though the very night itself provided nourishment. With all the hanging vines and flora, it seemed more like a jungle than a professor's station. The wooden furniture did little to help squash the feeling, either.

The room smelled different, as well; pleasant and soothing. Cedric sniffed quickly, taking in the sudden fragrance, and then inhaled deeply, his eyes drooping as if readying for sleep.

"_Mirabilis jalapa,_" Professor Sprout announced, answering some unspoken question. "Quite the fragrant flower. Partially nocturnal, but also self-seeding; they're quite the nuisance when left unchecked. The calming effect is from the jimsonweed..."

"_Datura stramonium?" _Cedric asked. "Devil's weed?"

An impressed expression drew on the professor's face. "My, Cedric, you _do_ pay attention in class, don't you? I was beginning to wonder."

Professor Sprout sat behind her desk, unmoved when a flurry of feathered beasts scurried up to tree limbs high above them. She motioned for Cedric to take the seat in front of the bureau.

"Cedric, there's something that I have to tell you," she began as Cedric sat. "Well, two things, really. The first thing deals with the Triwizard Tournament."

Cedric gulped, hoping that this wouldn't be the end of the contest. Despite his doubts about his ability to perform, he was quite chuffed at being selected and anxious to prove his mettle.

"It's... not cancelled, is it?" he asked.

"Oh, no – nothing like that. No, I am here to tell you what the first task is."

Cedric stared at her, slack-jawed and unbelieving.

"Dragons," she said, simply.

Cedric's eyebrows quirked. "Dragons?"

"Yes. You'll have to face dragons. Well," she corrected herself, "one dragon, that is."

A great many things ran through Cedric's mind, none of which dealt with the actual task itself. Most of his thoughts were centred on how he could go about quitting the tournament, how he'd break the news to his father, and how easy it would be to simply run away. Certainly facing a dragon, even as a sixth-year, would be tantamount to suicide. However, those thoughts were quickly put aside when the one question that seemed far less important made its way past his lips.

"Why are you telling me this? Do the other champions know?"

Professor Sprout smiled. "Yes, they are being told by their headmasters as we speak." Slowly, her face became solemn once more. "The reason why I'm telling you this is because, by tomorrow, everyone will know what happened tonight."

Without realising it, Cedric straightened in his seat, his eyes attentive and unblinking.

"The dragons were kept on Hogwarts grounds, a ways past Hagrid's hut by some expert dragon tamers. Unfortunately, one of the dragons broke free from its bonds and attacked one of the tamers and a wandering student."

"A student?" Cedric interrupted. "Which... who?"

Professor Sprout took a deep breath. "Harry Potter."

The head of Hufflepuff continued to speak, but Cedric didn't hear her. His eyes drifted away from her as he took in this new piece of information. He felt light-headed and nauseous, as though he could feel the world spinning on its axis. A question burned on the tip of his tongue, yet he found himself too afraid of the answer to ask it. One time – which seemed so long ago – Cedric believed that he had all the time in the world for Harry. He thought that, perhaps foolishly so, things would eventually work out in his favour. Harry would leave Hogwarts two years after Cedric, they'd run into each other unexpectedly at some function, and sparks would fly.

'Oh, Harry. You graduated, did you?'

'Why, yes, Cedric – I have.'

'Brilliant, mate! Care for a shag, then?'

'Why, yes, Cedric – I'd love a shag, thanks.'

Harry was simply young, too young for comfort. Nevertheless, Cedric could wait – would wait – because he believed it worth it. The unfortunate thing was that now, Cedric realised time waits for no one.

"Cedric? Mr. Diggory?"

Professor Sprout's tone finally pulled Cedric from his thoughts. "Are you alright, Cedric?"

"Is Harry dead?" he asked.

Professor Sprout reacted as if physically slapped by the question. "Uh... er, yes. Well, I mean... no. He's not dead. He _is_ quite hurt, of course. One of the dragon tamers managed to cast a fire protection spell on him just moments before the attack. Unfortunately, the spell was too weak and the dragon, too close. Mr. Potter has suffered serious burns—"

"Can I see him?"

Again, Professor Sprout reacted sharply. "I ... Well, yes. You can see him in the morning, certainly. I do think that–"

Cedric stood, startling Sprout with his abruptness. "With all due respect, Professor, I'd like to see him now."

Despite its conviviality, there was little doubt that his request was actually up for debate.

"I – I didn't know you two were friends," Professor Sprout admitted.

"We... we were getting there."

"Very well, then. Madam Pomfrey has created a waiting room of sorts in the hospital wing. I shall escort you."

"Thank you, Professor."

"I must ask, however, that should you come into contact with any student between now and this morning's assembly that you do not repeat what I've told you."

"Of course, Professor."

With that, Professor Sprout walked around her desk and out of her office, followed closely by a disturbed Cedric on the verge of panic.


End file.
